Series 2, Episode 1:  ”So Gone”—Best Coast

“You say that you don’t have time for me

so I move along

and now I’m gone

so gone”

I generally sedate myself into near-oblivion when I’m flying, particularly coast-to-coast/continent-to-continent.  Over-the-counter sleep remedies, homeopathic flight medications, tiny gifts of sedatives from my friends.  I’m not picky about it.  I just want to close my eyes before take off and open them again as the plane makes its descent into my final destination.  This need for unconsciousness does not have roots in travel anxiety.  I’m not concerned that this particular 737 will fall out of the sky into an Iowa cornfield.  I’m also not worried about catching SARS or experiencing one of those oh-so-common Philadelphia-Salt Lake City hijackings.  It’s just the boredom of sitting still for so long.  My book will become boring, my contact lenses will reveal themselves to be discs of hard plastic, and my feet will fall asleep.  I can’t bear the free in-flight programming and the SkyMall catalog grows old after thirty minutes of giggling to myself about weird massage  apparatuses and dog hammocks.  Sleep is the best escape, dreamless or otherwise.

I was forced to confront this particularly long pair of flights in a state of crystal clear consciousness.  No Xanax, no pre-flight cocktails, not even my worst-case-scenario dose of Benadryl (I’m allergic to seemingly everything).  My cat, Moe $$$, was traveling with me, in a fleece-lined, “Airline Approved!” carrier under my feet.  In the event that he started puking or crying, I wanted to be prepared.  I was accustomed to traveling with Dylan, but I doubted that animal crackers and coloring books would calm my nervous companion.  He was also stone cold sober.  No sedatives for either of us.  We were in this together.

I sat in the Denver airport (a barren desert of food options for vegans with celiac disease) eating trail mix and dried seaweed, while staring out at the tarmac.   As planes clumsily staggered from gate to runway and back again, I thought about this day.  This was supposed to be one of those seminal moments.  After weeks of packing, planning, and goodbyes, I was finally leaving Philadelphia and returning to Portland. But mostly I was just tired.  And hungry for actual food.  I was neither nervous nor excited.  Everything was pre-arranged and would most likely go as planned.  Alana would retrieve me, Moe, and my three suitcases from the airport.  I would take a nap and then we would go to a barbecue.  It was Memorial Day weekend, after all.  I would spend the summer biking around and reading in the park.  

I had been saying for years that I wanted to return to the Great Northwest.  All of my dreams and stories were set there, among the bridges, trees, and mountains.  I used most of my vacation days and disposable income to visit this city, the place I considered my true home.  Every time my flight back to Philadelphia (via Phoenix or Chicago or sometimes even San Francisco) whizzed past Mt. Hood, tears would form in the corners of my eyes.  Cue instant headache and concurrent stomach pain.   I would stumble down the jetway at PHL, bleary-eyed and miserable, dreading the return to my lonely apartment and my allegedly glamorous job.  

I schemed and dreamed and searched for jobs.  But then I would give up.  The obstacles and questions were overwhelming.  Where would I live?  How would I transport all of my flea market furniture, art books, and cats to the other side of the country?  How would Dylan feel about transferring to a school 3000 miles away?  What about my parents?  Who would color my mom’s hair and cook Sunday dinner?  My mind would shut down after five minutes of attempting to untangle these complicated knots.  I might as well have tried to map the entire expanse of the universe in one sitting.

And then it happened.  Spring came, after a complicated winter and a laughable fall.  Rain, then snow, then the return of the geese…intertwined with incomparable drama and emotional turmoil.  Screaming matches, cold shoulders, and too much whiskey had infiltrated my otherwise uneventful Philadelphia life.  On a Monday in April, I realized I had reached my saturation level.  By Friday, I had a job and I was booking a mover.  

The next few Swap Meet entries will tell the story of my return to Portland.  You, dear reader/friend/patient stranger will finally know the answer to the question I’ve heard almost every day since my flight touched down in Portland:  “What made you finally come back here?”  The answer starts with “Well, I met this guy” and ends with “And now I think I should send him one of those Edible Arrangements.”

And P.S. I promise…no more Best Coast songs for a long time.  But I’m not kidding when I say that this was the very first song my Ipod served up when use of “approved portable electronic devices” was permitted on my flight out of Philly.  And yeah, it seemed pretty appropriate for no less than 17 reasons.  Oh, you’ll see, won’t you….