Leaving on a Jet Plane – Monday June 16
As Art backs out of our driveway, leaving our small downtown Victorian house in Santa Cruz behind, my mind whirls, rechecking hundreds of things on my departure list vital to our families escape to Tokyo, Bali and the Komodo Islands. I slip my hand into the secure zipper of my purse and once again feel three passports and three tickets. Have I remembered to tell Alisha all that she will need to know to run my business smoothly in my absence? A good friend will take care of the house and the pets, and yes, he has the keys and all of the emergency contact information. The static within my mind diminishes with every mile and within 50 minutes Art pulls our 8 year old Acura into the Mountain View train station. We each have just one carry on suitcase, plus the purse on my back that holds all of our tickets, passports cash and credit cards. I have made copies of most of these important documents, but our printer went down a few days ago and in my haste, I flash that have yet to back up our credit card information. A wave of concern sweeps over me should a worst case scenario arise and I make a mental note to do this by hand.
Yesterday, Art gave his friend, a second key to the Acura and he will pick our car up after his work tonight and drive it back to Santa Cruz. Art telephones him to give him the parking space number, we buy tickets for the 7:57 A.M. train, lift our small suitcases aboard and are off, sandwiched between the hoards of Monday morning commuters. I find a seat upstairs, but Art and John stand for the first few stops until we are able to get 4 seats together. I gaze out the window happily, backyards and the cluttered back lots of industrial zones whizzing past me. The mind static is almost gone; I am on the road again. John, our 15 year old son, lanky and sleepy eyed, leans back into the seat with his black sweatshirt hood pulled up hiding much of his handsome and chiseled face. Art’s brow is still furrowed but he softly comments on the contented look on my face, and tells me that someone should package “it.”
At Milbrae, we change from the train to Bart which feeds into the S.F.O. international terminal. We are ahead of schedule and find our place in the long check in line at United Air. John, always hungry, heads for the Airport food court while Art and I stand in line. A few minutes later, getting my attention, John calls out “Marty,” gives me a happy thumbs up and sits across from our snaking line, a tray piled high with food. When he takes his place in line with us, he gives me $3.00 change from the $20.00 bill handed to him earlier. Art grimaces and I hope that in Bali, our dollar will stretch far.
I travel easily and take long lines, security checks and cramped flights in stride but this flight puts even me to a test. Our seating assignments are not together and the plane is completely full but just before departure, we are able to switch seats with a late arriving passenger and sit together. The service is curt, the food bad and the in-flight movies are aired on small overhead screens, not personal seat back consoles. John is getting sick and he coughs and sniffles and complains about the pressure in his ears. Several hours into the flight, after dinner and two movies, we each take a sleeping pill and manage to get some rest.
