Well, here I am at the airport at 11:00 on a Monday morning, on my way to Denver, where I’ll be catching a plane this evening to Frankfurt, Germany. I’ll land in Frankfurt at 11:30 a.m. local time, which is 2:30 a.m. in Phoenix, Arizona. This is my first time in an airport in two years, and from the look of things, life is back to normal, aside from the masks.

My Uber driver showed up early, which ensured I got to the airport on time. Once at the check-in kiosk and having scanned my passport, I needed an airline rep to verify my documents. I was asked for my COVID test results, which pushed my launch buttons. I insisted that Germany recently changed the policy, and exceptions were made. Luckily, before I could transition to panic, the assistant spotted the exceptions button and verified my CDC vaccination document. Phew.

Because my TSA/KTN/Pre-check paperwork was still good, I was able to avoid the seriously long security line and breezed through that part of the gauntlet. As usual, I’m under stress as I do not look forward to the boarding process because I worry that my bag won’t fit in an overhead bin if I arrive at my seat late. And what do I do with all this extra time? Eat? Hmm, airport food. My options were slim, but I knew that.

Obviously, I turned to writing, but now that I have the easy, obligatory rundown of what transpired after I left home this morning, I’m floundering to find anything very meaningful to note here. I’m transfixed by what I’ve committed to and pretty much only see Germany on the horizon. I should note that it’s strangely quiet in the terminal, though there are a lot of people here, probably due to the masks that are muffling conversations. Maybe my mind is being muffled by this face covering? I know coffee will kick-start me.

The bar with bar food is the only option for a bite to eat at this terminal. It filled the lunch requirement, and having arrived at the airport so early, I endured the long line at Starbucks for the main reason for wandering away from the waiting area. Before I know it our row numbers are called to board our plane, and we are soon in the air, heading out of the desert.

While I’m flying with a full complement of software toys to occupy myself, the brevity of the flight has me reluctant to try digging into something that will take a bit of time to find flow with. So, why am I back at this writing stuff if the flow is so difficult to find? Because I don’t know what else to do in my narrow little seat. I know, I should have brought videos! No, that would absolve me from trying to discover an inkling of something to say beyond this low-hanging fruit of complaint.

Just barely at altitude, we are almost 30 minutes into our flight then in another 30 minutes, we’ll begin our descent. The beverage carts are out, and we’ve been reminded countless times that our masks are required at all times unless we are taking sips of our drink or eating.

If I were a betting man, I’d wager that the majority of my tensions here in the air are attributable to the total disdain I hold for those around me. Honestly, though, I hold no real insight into who these half-lives are; I’m only making assumptions based on some 50 years of looking people in the face and waiting for things to fall out. They confirm my bias or lend me new biases to assign to their character type, if that’s even really possible. After writing this out, I might tend to think I need a therapist to resolve all of this deep-seated animosity, except in the back of my puny brain, I know that life’s too short and that snap decisions must be made so I can protect the little bit of gray matter that still functions in this old man’s withering brain.

Sweet Jeezus, a passenger on my right, is in the third cycle of disinfecting herself and everything around her. Take a drink and immediately swab her face with an alcohol wipe. Stuff that infected wipe into the Ziploc bag she brought along just for the ritual. Then, in a flash, the enlightenment I didn’t know I really wanted: watch videos so you can tune everyone else around you out of existence. That’s the key: people watch TV to erase their existence and deny that anyone else might be intruding into whatever bit of awareness hasn’t died yet. Hence, zombie movies are popular as a kind of documentary of what, to me, looks like what happens when too much awareness has been kept alive.

Time to turn to the toilet, as isn’t that an essential consideration for flying? With a serious concentration on clearing my bowels before I left Arizona, I was successful in evacuating the old pooper at home. That’s right, in the comfort of my home, I was able to find excretory relief. This is important, as a man of 230 pounds who can’t imagine reaching down between my fat thighs to shove my hand into that tiny hole of a cold steel toilet I have to crap in and find my ass to clean it. I can’t really imagine how anyone has ever done that; hence, you can read this as my admission that I’ve never dropped a number 2 at 35,000 feet. Others are even more anxious than I am when it comes to evacuation while aloft, as I’ve seen much evidence left by the man who, knowing that women also have to use these facilities, failed to lift the seat and, in a moment of turbulence simply pissed willy-nilly all over the seat and much of the floor.

I should have more to share about my digestive process while flying, and just as I think I’m at a loss to offer more, I realize that many a reader might be able to relate to the situation that after a long-distance flight, the chocolate starfish on my backside seems to seal shut for approximately two days until it overcomes the trauma that might have required it to release in a space far too intimate for those who were broken during our formative potty-training years. Yep, I’m butthole and shit stink shy of ever enjoying whatever pleasure might exist by letting go of any mounting pressure while flying. For all the crap that flows from my mouth, I can imagine many people I’ve known wondering how somebody who lets so much fall from his maw should not take pride in pooping on a plane. Obviously, not one of my superpowers.

Approaching the time to descend into Denver.

And before I know it I’m on Lufthansa flight LH447 direct to Frankfurt, Germany. The flight will take 9 hours 45 minutes and already I’m relaxed as I’m surrounded by travelers going home to Sweden, Turkey, Germany, and other points I’ve not ascertained. Talked with a young American lady who is studying abroad and shared her difficulties of jumping through flaming hoops to get into Germany at this time. Even my entry is not a guaranteed deal, as I’ll have to convince the authorities that I have valid family reasons for coming to Europe. Hopefully, with the digital images of documents that show Caroline and I are married, Jutta’s number at her assisted living facility, and Klaus as the last resort to verify things, I’ll breeze through the gauntlet of challenges.

My flight has wifi, and my seat has an outlet, so I’m all set to remain busy getting these writings into my blog so Caroline might try keeping up with the onslaught of words that are about to start falling into her eyeballs and mind. For the moment, there are no photos to accompany the previous 1,800 words I drolled on with, but hopefully, as we fly along, I’ll take some photos that will likely look very similar to other photos I’ve taken from the air while heading towards Europe. Time to close this down for a few while we move towards take-off.

Quick note: we are 8,096km from Frankfurt, and the time of flight has been updated to 8 hours 45 minutes.

Search harder, John; there must be something in that noggin I’ve not repeated 427 times already, but that’s all I’m finding as we skirt at a hair over 1,000 km/h above the surface of the earth. We just passed 10,000 meters in elevation and entered the bitter cold world of -54 Celsius. Dinner service is about to begin, which feels early, but it’s 5:30 p.m. in Phoenix and 6:30 in Denver, so I guess this is as good a time as any to sup. The wifi is not on yet, as I’m guessing they want to get everyone through dinner and drinks before people zone out in entertainment land. Just then, my memory tells me that I have cashews in my bag. Time for a pre-dinner snack.

I wonder, does Caroline miss me yet? We’ve already chatted 30 times and Skyped on video after I boarded my flight to Germany. I know she misses me, and I miss her. It would be pointless to go on and on about our situation, but that’s never stopped me from beating dead horses all over this blog. So I’ll reiterate this: I MISS CAROLINE. Ooh…the dinner cart is being dragged by.

Dinner was exactly what you might have expected: meh, but the brie was nice.

Seven hours forty-eight minutes to Frankfurt. My face was having a steam bath, but at least I was able to bum a surgical mask from another passenger that allowed me to exit the N95, which was seriously hotter. Fabric masks are not permitted, and passengers were informed that they’d be denied boarding if they didn’t put on one of the two types allowed.

I’d like to grab a photo outside, but I’m on the left of the craft and have the sun pummeling me if I dare have my shade open; plus, it’s so hazy I’d have little to show you. Here, I’ll prove it.

Maybe I should have brought a book? I’d decided against it as, knowing me, I’d struggle to keep up processing photos and trying to capture the day in words. I managed to pack everything I’d need for 36 days in one carry-on bag; there was little room for much else. I even fit my pillow in my luggage.

Somehow, my thoughts drift to the idea that if I could just get on wifi and say hello to Caroline, I could relax into writing something more compelling than the mundane moment by moment blather I’m droning on about. Just because I’m aware of this shortcoming doesn’t mean I’m going to fight it and not continue this thread of nothingness, though.

The shades are closed and night has fallen on us here in our seats as the sun continues blazing outside our aircraft. Also continuing to blaze along are the vocal cords of infants who’ve been wailing for a good two hours. Slowly, they are starting to fade as, hopefully, the dimmed ambiance of the cabin and white noise will lull them to sleep. As for me, I’m trying to make it another two or three hours, so I might get three or four hours of sleep before stepping into mid-day after we land.

Just as I thought, following dinner, we were able to get online. For 17 Euros, I have a limited connection, and it wasn’t worth the $20 I’m paying. For 29 Euros or $34, I am promised a faster connection, but I’m reluctant to test those waters. Anyway, besides chatting the same thing over and over to Caroline, I don’t really want a connection to the larger world.

While the kids continue nattering away, with the loudest one finally done screaming, I’m getting sleepy, or so I’m trying to convince myself. Just then, the screaming Swedish baby starts up again, and her stressed-out mom heads for the back of the plane sans infant. I think the parent’s nerves are growing raw. Soon, my own nerves are going to fray. This baby is nearly relentless.

We are under five hours from Frankfurt, and I’m getting nervous I won’t get a bit of sleep, though I’ve tried. I know I can muscle through tomorrow, but I’ll be spongy-brained. Hah, I can hear anyone who’s read this far thinking, “Dude, you already are spongy-brained.” I have tons of legroom as I’m in a seat behind a divider to business class, and no one is sitting next to me. I also don’t have any way of directing air at myself, and with this mask on, I’m overheating. I’m not inclined to take it off and test the system as stewards walk by regularly inspecting us for compliance. The Germans are not messing around as far as air travel is concerned.

The Swedish family is finally resting, as is the entire plane. I wish I knew how others were able to just go to sleep on command even though their body clock is likely saying, “Yo, it’s too early for this.”

Obviously, staring blankly at this screen won’t get me any restorative sleep, so once again, I’ll close up the laptop and try my best to get some sleep. Maybe with my shoes off, I’ll feel sleepier? Whatever.

There’s that place somewhere during a long-haul flight where one loses track of time. While trying to drift into sleep but keenly aware of a cramped body trying to find comfort in a near-vertical position, made more difficult by the tug of rubber bands from the mandatory mask behind my ears that seem to slice ever so slightly into flesh. But somehow, something sleep-like was had, and though it was fleeting, we tried to convince ourselves that we were now rested. How long had I slept well? It won’t be until you are face to face with a passport control officer that you realize how wrecked you are. Stepping into a busy city at mid-day while your internal clock tells you that it’s 2:00 a.m. is a subtle process that competes with trying to make sense of the dramatic shift in language and that you have to secure some local currency so you can move about freely. In the meantime, I can spend a few minutes trying to get a good photo of the new socks Caroline knitted me and that I’m wearing for the first time on this trip.

After starting to stir I thought it a good idea to peek outside. I was nearly blinded by this folly, but now I’m also fully aware that we transitioned from the dusk-like zone to the oh-my-god; it’s the middle of the day in a European capital that I’m about to encounter. Soon, the aircrew will start bringing up the lights to create an artificial transition to morning, and we’ll be served our first meal of the day. But this is an extension of last night, and I’m feeling confused. After a breakfast that, based on the clock, is too late, yet based on my body clock, it’s happening in the middle of the night; we’ll start the process of being ushered into the cattle yard to be sorted into our next destinations.

The last 20 hours of life spent in the process of traveling is a blur of moments trying to extract something meaningful that relates to what I am about to embark on, but the reality is that I squirm in roles of trying to be sophisticated and entertained, locked in a tiny space waiting for others to be finished with the transport of my body. This is not glamorous, nor is it enlightening; it’s mobility torture for the sake of celebrating mobility when one finally begins the real journey of being somewhere.

This is a powerful reminder that when confined. the internet is of little service in rescuing you from the inescapable. The internet, for me, is only able to fill gaps with mindlessness or knowledge when sandwiched into the luxury of options that I’m struggling to make. Do I go for coffee, make music, read, watch cat videos, meet a friend for lunch, or go grocery shopping? When no options exist but to persist in place, I find what the internet has to offer as banal as the TV I so vehemently eschew. I wonder how we encode options against the economic and time realities we exist within and how the media becomes the crutch we turn to when indecisiveness and ambiguity are facing us.

One plumbs a lot of boredom and idle time under constraints and restrictions to kick-start our minds into finding viable options to lead us through the moments where our decisions to act are severely diminished. Comfort to have options might not be our best friend when we are aware of our desire to manifest a different reality, and so we must bind ourselves in ways that at once punish our mind and body while simultaneously liberating our imagination to create constructs that offer viable outlets for minds that want to explode in the power to manifest an undefined new reality.

My fellow passengers have started to stir, and others are repeating the mistake I made earlier, opening their window shades. Just as quickly as one opens, it closes. We are only 90 minutes away from our encounter with a different world, and somehow, this is all quite different than my previous visits. Maybe in our post-pandemic world, our senses are being reset, and it’s not as easy to take for granted what we used to enjoy. If I’m allowed to enter the European Union, I’ll be stepping onto ground where national governments are not yet at ease about the consequences of people making selfish decisions and those moving about potentially sharing a deadly virus. What I find in Germany might be a shock compared to Phoenix, where my transition to pandemic existence was relatively gradual.

Enough writing for now. I’m ready to fling open the shade and see this side of Earth. Bring me something to eat and kick me off this plane; I need to stretch my legs and see how my mind exercises itself in this tomorrow that arrives at a peculiar time.

Next time I have to travel wearing a mask I must remind myself to have mints with me and a toothbrush in easy reach. I need a second mask with me, too, as this one just broke, and I’d like to avoid the N95 as I move through the airport and try to be understood by passport control. Speaking of entering another country, my anxiety wants to make itself known, but if the Germans decide that family helping out family in a bind is not reason enough to allow my entry, well, that’s fate and just the way it is. I’m confident that my ducks are in a row, but the people I’m about to encounter know significantly more about order than I ever will.

Okay, breakfast is done. We are awaiting a sweep for trash and I’m expecting I will lose wifi shortly. With sunshine streaming in through opened windows, my senses are telling me to reach out to Caroline, but it’s 1:00 a.m. when she puts her head down for the night. She won’t be up for about 3.5 hours, meaning, yes, she’s waking at 4:30. Why so early? To go for a walk, talk with me, and then put herself in that infernal machine called a car that she’ll have to pilot to her office.

Only 45 minutes left before touchdown. Time to turn my attention to putting things away and getting ready to start blogging about what lies ahead.