I spend a lot of time on airplanes. I’ve been on a flight every month {sometimes two} since last autumn. I’m that person who gets sad when I see people checking in at the airport as I’m leaving. I love flying. Right now, the East Coast is wooing me with its big cities & little beaches. My sister was doing the Broadway thing so trips to NYC seemed to be a regular occurrence for a while.
And every trip has a story.
…like the time the lady in the seat next to me started playing a Native American Flute in-flight so that the crying child in the front of the plane could feel more comfortable.
…or the time when I went to Central Park with full knowledge of rain in the forecast, with no jacket or umbrella and ended up stuck, under a tree, with a rat in pouring ran and ran to the subway drenched 3 hours before I was to be at the airport on a flight home.
…or the time I met up with a friend in the concrete jungle wearing heels and got stuck in a Polish parade in the middle of Fifth Avenue as we walked several NY blocks to find a brunch that we never made it to.
…or that one time…
When I once again flew East. What started as burgers, beers & milkshakes morphed into family visits, brunches & shopping and 2am Capitol escapades and 3am diner dinners and sunset walks on the beach. It was a whirlwind weekend.
It took me twelve years to make that trip. But, it was the trip of a lifetime and the beginning of the same. As I start to live my life outside the yellow lines of caution, my visits with theMister {that’s what we’ll call him now} are the high points of my months.
I love being above the clouds. I commune with God there. And on the other side of that journey comes the sacred time with this new…uh…love.
But, ssh…don’t tell anyone…
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