I don't think I will ever get over the marvel of flight. To be able to hop hundreds of miles in a little over an hour is the kind of everyday magic that we take for granted too often. I am on the air bart bus — me and six men — and I am very tired and very ready to find sleep. When I got on the bus, one of the men turned to me. "You escaped Portland," he said.
"I didn't know it needed escaping," I replied. I was slightly nervous; how had he known I'd come from there?
He must have read my guarded face, because he then alluded to the much-delayed flight. That made sense. He must have seen me on the plane. He called someone and promised to be home soon.
I am so used to watching people that I never imagine I am being watched. Earlier today, Jaime and I saw a guy with a Michigan Crew t-shirt. I asked him about it; he'd graduated in 2000 like us. "I thought I knew your face," he told me, and then remembered where he'd seen me ten years previous.
Now I wait for the train that will return me to the city. The orange lights overhead crackle and sigh, casting their sickly glow over my skin. Further out in the night, rows of streetlights haphazardly define hills. The East Bay is quiet tonight, and I am too. I want to be home in my bed with the cats claiming too much of it, but I don't mind waiting for the train. It gives me time to study this midnight, burn it to mind. It feels like something to document, a solitary moment that I will revisit like cinema.
"I didn't know it needed escaping," I replied. I was slightly nervous; how had he known I'd come from there?
He must have read my guarded face, because he then alluded to the much-delayed flight. That made sense. He must have seen me on the plane. He called someone and promised to be home soon.
I am so used to watching people that I never imagine I am being watched. Earlier today, Jaime and I saw a guy with a Michigan Crew t-shirt. I asked him about it; he'd graduated in 2000 like us. "I thought I knew your face," he told me, and then remembered where he'd seen me ten years previous.
Now I wait for the train that will return me to the city. The orange lights overhead crackle and sigh, casting their sickly glow over my skin. Further out in the night, rows of streetlights haphazardly define hills. The East Bay is quiet tonight, and I am too. I want to be home in my bed with the cats claiming too much of it, but I don't mind waiting for the train. It gives me time to study this midnight, burn it to mind. It feels like something to document, a solitary moment that I will revisit like cinema.
Labels: travel
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