2000
Los Angeles
We left so early there was no one in line at the donut shop. And with Jonathan driving both of us, we could carpool lane all the way to the airport. We rocketed past thousands of dead-eyed drivers stuck solo in Acuras and Saturns and Mercurys and Cateras. I commandeered the radio to play the last of the mix tapes I'd made for our road trip, one for each state, and "California Stars" came on, elegiac and inappropriate in the bright morning sun. Near the airport was a strip club called, as far as I can tell, Live Girls Girls Girls Live Girls Live. Rather than seeming seedy, it seemed inspirational, a joyous command to women everywhere. Live, Girls! Girls, Girls, Live! Girls, Live!
Hugs all around. Jonathan helped us unload our monstrous bags and drove away, back to Long Beach, back to bed. We handed the luggage over to the skycaps and realized that for the next few hours, anyway, all we owned in the world was in our two carry-on bags. Our car was somewhere in the middle of the ocean; our furniture was in a warehouse somewhere in Hawaii; everything else was in the belly of the plane. If it weren't for all the donuts we would've felt positively lighter than air.
There were two TV screens listing departures. DOMESTIC DEPARTURES, one said. INTERNATIONAL DEPARTURES, the other said. For the eightieth time we reminded ourselves that we were not, in fact, leaving the United States. Our flight was departing from Gate 66.
We sat by the gate for half an hour, waiting to board. My mom called on my cell phone to wish us luck. "I can't believe you're about to fly to Hawaii," she said. Neither could we. My head was still trying to get around our cross-country journey. Somehow, three weeks before, we'd been staring out across the Atlantic, and now we were about to fly 2000 miles across the Pacific. And waiting for us at the end was an apartment we'd never seen in a city we'd never visited on an island in the middle of the sea.
The phrase "point of no return" originated with early airplane flights from the mainland to Hawaii. Because Hawaii is so far away not only from the mainland but from everything, planes flying there reach a certain point, around halfway through the trip, at which they simply do not have enough fuel to land anywhere other than in Hawaii or in the ocean. You can't turn around or land someplace else. There's just nowhere else close enough to go.
The point of no return.
"Now boarding, Continental Flight 75, non-stop to Honolulu. All rows now boarding."
We picked up our bags. We got into line. Nineteen months before, my wife had gotten this job. Before we even had time to laugh, she and I stepped through Gate 66.
Soundtrack:
Hurricane Warning (Ignored) Portastatic NC
West Savannah Outkast GA
Oxford Town Bob Dylan MS
Billy the Kid Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers NM
California Stars Billy Bragg & Wilco CA
We left so early there was no one in line at the donut shop. And with Jonathan driving both of us, we could carpool lane all the way to the airport. We rocketed past thousands of dead-eyed drivers stuck solo in Acuras and Saturns and Mercurys and Cateras. I commandeered the radio to play the last of the mix tapes I'd made for our road trip, one for each state, and "California Stars" came on, elegiac and inappropriate in the bright morning sun. Near the airport was a strip club called, as far as I can tell, Live Girls Girls Girls Live Girls Live. Rather than seeming seedy, it seemed inspirational, a joyous command to women everywhere. Live, Girls! Girls, Girls, Live! Girls, Live!
Hugs all around. Jonathan helped us unload our monstrous bags and drove away, back to Long Beach, back to bed. We handed the luggage over to the skycaps and realized that for the next few hours, anyway, all we owned in the world was in our two carry-on bags. Our car was somewhere in the middle of the ocean; our furniture was in a warehouse somewhere in Hawaii; everything else was in the belly of the plane. If it weren't for all the donuts we would've felt positively lighter than air.
There were two TV screens listing departures. DOMESTIC DEPARTURES, one said. INTERNATIONAL DEPARTURES, the other said. For the eightieth time we reminded ourselves that we were not, in fact, leaving the United States. Our flight was departing from Gate 66.
We sat by the gate for half an hour, waiting to board. My mom called on my cell phone to wish us luck. "I can't believe you're about to fly to Hawaii," she said. Neither could we. My head was still trying to get around our cross-country journey. Somehow, three weeks before, we'd been staring out across the Atlantic, and now we were about to fly 2000 miles across the Pacific. And waiting for us at the end was an apartment we'd never seen in a city we'd never visited on an island in the middle of the sea.
The phrase "point of no return" originated with early airplane flights from the mainland to Hawaii. Because Hawaii is so far away not only from the mainland but from everything, planes flying there reach a certain point, around halfway through the trip, at which they simply do not have enough fuel to land anywhere other than in Hawaii or in the ocean. You can't turn around or land someplace else. There's just nowhere else close enough to go.
The point of no return.
"Now boarding, Continental Flight 75, non-stop to Honolulu. All rows now boarding."
We picked up our bags. We got into line. Nineteen months before, my wife had gotten this job. Before we even had time to laugh, she and I stepped through Gate 66.
Soundtrack:
Hurricane Warning (Ignored) Portastatic NC
West Savannah Outkast GA
Oxford Town Bob Dylan MS
Billy the Kid Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers NM
California Stars Billy Bragg & Wilco CA
posted by Bango T. Bungle at 23:51
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