I’m sorry that I hate you for doing all those things you don’t even realize that you do.
Jessica left the note on Alex’s desk and grabbed her suitcase.
It was still a few hours till he’d arrive, he wouldn’t read it until she was already on the plane.
Then it wouldn’t matter. Her phone would be off and he wouldn’t be able to contact her until she was already thousands of miles away.
She knew it was an easy out, but she took it anyway.
I gotta say, Florida is beautiful from the plane.
Everything is so green and vibrant. The great big blue expanse of the ocean is stunning instead of mildly terrifying the way it usually is to a girl from the plains who doesn’t know how to swim.
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, I am not a good flyer. A sad fact I discovered when I took my first flight ever to Mexico with my parents at age 11 and had to be calmed down before even boarding the plane.
Today’s flight was no exception.
Moments after take off, probably around the time we reached “cruising altitude” I started feeling nauseous. I have a sinking suspicion that my nausea might have had only 50% to do with my motion sickness and 50% to do with the huge margarita I chose to drink for breakfast while waiting for my flight.
Isn’t that what you do in an airport?
Drink? Drink and have emotional reunions with loved ones?
Maybe. Maybe not. But that was the choice I made and I have to suffer through it.
I tried to sleep a bit but couldn’t since the cabin, which, overcompensating for the earlier stuffiness, was colder than a Chicago morning in February and due to the cost cuts there were no complimentary blankets for my napping pleasure offered in coach. Is it still called coach?
Ah it’s “economy class.”
It is peasant class.
“Let them freeze. Let them eat cake–but only if they pay for it.”
Unable to sleep I read and drank my complimentary coffee. Neither of these helped my nausea. I made small talk with the nice older lady from Tampa who was one seat away from. Thank God we had that empty seat between. I’m sure this is what kept us friendly.
“Oh my gosh! Why those are actual palm trees arent they?!” I couldn’t help but exclaim with touristic excitement. The nice lady from Tampa just smiled and gave me the same look I give tourists when they say obvious things like “the buildings are so tall here.” Or “The lakefront is so beautiful.” The one that says “Yep. That’s just how it is here. It’s no big.”
Finally the seatbelt sign went off and we all scrambled to grab our things and leave. I said goodbye to the nice lady from Tampa and headed out into the airport, which from what she tells me is “cozy.”
And now I find myself sitting in yet another airport Chili’s killing time and eavesdropping on a table of hilarious middle aged Brits.
It’s no O’hare, but it’ll do for now.
It’s 10 am on a week day and I’m the same train I take to work, only by this time I’m more than an hour late and I’m skipping the second to last stop on this train for the last stop on the line.
I’ve lived all of my life in this city and I’ve never actually taken the train to O’hare with the intention of getting on a plane and going somewhere else.
When my friends and I were in high school we thought it was fun for some reason to take the blue line all the way to the airport and then back.
Good Lord, why are we such dorks as teenagers?
My usual stop is next and I’m so happy to not be gathering my things right now and making my way to the doors. Instead I get to sit here with my incredibly well packed carry-on and wave goodbye as we pass up the suburb I spend every day working in the exciting international shiiping industry, and take my happy self to security gate (because I checked in online) and board a plane for beautiful Miami.
The Secret Life of Pandas 