Travelogue
//SFO//American Airlines//13:37
The thing about airports is that once you’ve spent more than three hours in one, you’ve pretty much exhausted the loitering curriculum. Luckily Jeff Burke is here to regale me with tales of radiation exposure on submarines (he didn’t get much), and highlights from the history of Quokka Sports (nothing too juicy, although there was a flight on the Concorde).
We’re stuck here because a thunderstorm of unprecedented ferocity is kicking the stuffing out of the Chicago O’Hare International Airport. It’s been blowing windows out of the terminals and they’re evacuating the control tower. As a result we’re in a “ground hold” while the storm carves its way across Chicago.
I’m just hoping we get there before the storm is completely spent.
//SFO//American Airlines//17:50
Airborne after a seventy minute wait on the wrong runway, the plane is almost full, and across the aisle is an extremely talkative intranet benefits application designer. What? Turns out she designs internal web sites that give employees direct control of their 401k and retirement plans. It occurs to me that this might possibly be the most boring job in the wired world, but I listen dutifully to her description of a typical day: up at 4am (because she likes to get to work by 6), an hour of NPR news while she goes through the previous days mail and tends the plants, then a shower and off to work. It goes on like this for the rest of her day, but I don’t have the stamina for it and I stop paying attention. I accidently make eye contact two hours later and she hooks me with “My sister was killed by the Colombian drug cartels.” Really? “No. I was just checking to see if you were paying attention again. She actually lives in the Oakland hills, not far from where the fires were. They have a new house, not that theirs was burned in the fire, they just needed some more space for their new baby. She was born in September, a Virgo - can you imagine?” I smile and open my laptop to get away.
We touch down in Chicago and spend another thirty five minutes on the runway. Evidently there is some confusion about the arrival gate. We rush off of the plane to get our connecting flight, which has evidently been held for us, and then sit in that airplane for another half-hour while we wait for catering to show up with what turns out to be snack mix and sodas. Every passenger on the plane is relieved to know that we won’t be flying without life-giving foodstuffs.
I share the row with a young woman from Japan. She speaks very little English, is thirteen or fourteen (I think), has never been to the Uniter States, is going to spend part of the summer with relatives in North Carolina, and is terribly afraid of flying. Her name is Aoki.
She squeezes the armrests as we move down the taxi-way, a barely audible, continuous murmur leaking out of her. I cannot understand what she is saying, but it’s heart-breaking nonetheless. When I put my arm on my part of the arm rest, she grabs my forearm with both hands and stares wide-eyed at me as the plane climbs into the night sky.
//Illinois//26,000ft//00:45
We are at our cruising altitude and Aoki is grinning foolishly as she sips her Sprite. She is very glad to be flying and not falling out of the sky. We have changed seats so that she doesn’t have be so close to the window. Since we cannot really talk, she points out things that she thinks are “coo” or “trash” in a Japanese fashion magazine and I nod and smile appreciatively. Her tastes run to Capri pants, tall shoes, and foods that come in packages. The in-flight snacks are evidently very “coo,” and I’m glad for her that the plane was held for their arrival. I give her my unopened bag of south-western pretzel mix and she saves it to give to a friend in Japan (I think). After the excitement of the take-off and the cool snacks, she falls asleep.
The thunderstorm that caused the delays has moved southeast of Chicago O’Hare, and according to our chatty and apologetic captain, the FAA has approved a modified flight plan that will take us around the storm. We backtrack to the west and to my gleeful surprise, the storm is still very much alive. It appears first in the windows ahead of my row, and I savor every glimpse of lightning I get. As the plan turns southward, the full system of thunderheads comes into my view.
It is magnificent. Grossly out of proportion to every storm I have ever seen. Lightning flashes continuously and in seconds the whole of the storm is revealed to me. It extends for hundreds of miles and consists of five or six nearly individual anvils connected by luminous banks of fog and a few small cumulonimbus blobs. Tendrils of hot white lightning escape from the towering anvil heads and crawl through the fog banks. Huge red bolts dive out of the bottom of the clouds and crash into the ground. Dozens of strikes hammer the earth, lighting up the clouds with an angry crimson reflection.
Lightning plays out of the storm endlessly. There is not a single moment when the clouds are not illuminated by more than one flash, and I perceive a hint of pattern - a traveling region of violent activity which appears to be moving clockwise around the base of the storm system.
Occasionally, one of the small clouds near us will contribute to the grand show, lighting up the cabin with an arc-welders cold blue light. It is one of these bolts that awakens Aoki.
She is gasping and crying out at the storm. I try to calm her, but I don’t know the word for “safe,” so I try the rest of my Japanese vocabulary: counting to four, “hello”, “yes”, and “thank you.” My terrible pronunciation distracts her momentarily and I get her to talk. First about school (I think) and then, in long and lyric detail, about her family (I think). We leave the storm behind, but she is wide awake now and talking rapidly. She pulls out the magazine and begins flipping through the pages as nervous chatter tumbles out of her. I am showing signs of jet-lag and her words weave in and out of my consciousness. I tell her that I’m going to rest now. “Hi,” she says with a nod, and returns to her magazines and running monologue about her parents.
//Midwestern US//28,000ft//0130//Aoki’s Story
Her mother was a swan (I think), born in the spring, on the shores of a beautiful mountain lake where two streams collected. Her parents named her Aoi. The waters of the lake were cool and full of fish. When fall came, she headed south, flying in the buoyant slipstream of Aoki’s grandparents.
That first winter, her parents took ill and died before the next spring. Aoi, not yet accustomed to the imperious ranks of her kind, found herself drawn back to the remote mountain lake. She summered there, alone but content, feeding on the abundant fish and snuggling in the dry reeds during the cold nights.
The years passed and Aoki’s mother, although she longed for the company of other swans, found that she was most comfortable when she could not hear their petty bickering and rumor mongering. She did not share the obsequious devotion that the other girls poured on the young boys who paraded endlessly along the shore, showing their plumage in the most ostentatious ways. She preferred instead to quietly idle in the rushes, letting the little frogs sleep more often than not, and always looking forward to the time when the snows would recede and she could return to her mountain lake.
She knew that the other swans made jokes at her expense, but since she did not value their company, it did not bother her in the least.
One spring, as she approached the lake, she noticed a mountain lion sleeping on the big rock that marked the entrance of one of the streams. She circled above him, marveling at his rich coat and lazy grace, only settling into the water when she noticed that he was watching her too. Pretending to ignore him, she savored the moment of arrival, then hunger from her long flight set in. She made her dinner from the fish who chose to swim nearest her, to tired to give chase.
The mountain lion stretched out on his belly and let his head hang over where he could see her gliding through the water. In his slumberous state, he appreciated her unhurried manner, her elegant curves, and the way her tail bobbed when she reached down to catch a fish.
Aoki’s mother let herself drift closer to the rock where the mountain lion pretended to sleep. She knew he could be considered dangerous, but she felt safe in the lake. Soon, she was making little circles just a few feet from him and almost at eye level.
“Aren’t you afraid of me?” he asked, his voice a melodic rumble.
“A little perhaps, but aren’t you afraid of water?” she replied.
“It is true, I prefer to drink the water rather than swim in it. But I know lions who would gladly take a swim for a meal like yourself.”
“I am not a meal, I am Aoi.”
“Aoi,” said the lion and rolled to his belly and began to sit up, “I am Ren.”
Aoi back-paddled as Ren rose to his full sitting height and loomed over her from his position on the big rock. Ren noticed her doing this and immediately laid back down.
“Where did you come from?” he asked.
Aoi told him about the places to the south, where it never gets cold, where swans gathered by the thousands, where it gets so loud you put your head under water just to have some peace.
Aoi and Ren talked like this until the Moon rose, both of them surprised by the sudden appearance of evening. Ren made his apologies and Aoi bid him farewell. That night, she heard his growl coming from deep in the forest followed immediately by the terrible cry of a frightened animal.
The next day when Ren appeared on the rock, she deliberately found reason to be at the opposite end of the lake. She did not venture near the rock until she was sure he had left. When he appeared the next day, she again favored the opposite end of the lake. And the next day, and the next, until a whole week had passed. Ren could not understand why she had been so friendly the first day, and now avoided him so resolutely. Something must be done.
It seemed impossible that water could be so cold. He was only up to his ankles and already he had begun shivering. He looked at Aoi, floating near the other side of the lake. He knew that he could quickly run to that side if he followed the shore, but it seemed important to approach her in the water, more polite somehow. He took a deep breath, and then forced himself to walk out into the frigid waters. Swimming did not come naturally to him, but he persevered and slowly made his way across the lake.
Aoi did not fail to notice that Ren had entered the lake. She was at once nervous and fascinated. He was almost completely submerged as he swam, only his eyes, nose and ears showing above the surface of the water. Was he paddling with his giant paws, or did he merely swish his long tail, she wondered. She stared as he drew closer. Finally, when he was only a few feet away, he stopped.
“Hello, Aoi,” he managed to say as he struggled to get his head far enough out of the water to speak.
“Hello, Ren.”
“Why do you not come visit me at the rock?”
“I heard what happened in the forest that first night.”
Ren did not understand what she was referring to and Aoi could see that he was confused.
“I heard that poor animal crying out while you killed it.”
Ren closed his eyes for a minute. The water was so cold. He realized that she was afraid of him, and the idea caused him a great and unexpected pain.
He looked away and then said in the softest voice, “I must eat.”
“But you killed that poor creature. I heard it’s screams.”
Ren looked at her for a moment. She was so blindingly radiant in the sunshine that her dark eyes seemed to pierce his heart.
“And the fish that you eat,” he said finally, “would they not cry out if they could?”
He turned and paddled away before she could answer. She watched him make his arduous way back to the shore, saw him shivering uncontrollably as he climbed out of the water only to collapse on the sun baked rock.
His words lay heavy on her mind and when she ducked under the water to catch a fish, she realized that he was right. She bobbed gently while she grappled with the sudden realization that her life was lived only at the expense of other lives. It was a notion that had never occurred to her, and until this very moment, fish were just food. She realized what she had done and began to paddle quickly across the lake.
When she arrived at the rock, Ren was sound asleep and still shivering. She paddled around for a moment, then made her way through the rocks and up onto the shore. She stood for another moment, unsure of what to do next. She waddled up to where Ren had laid his head. His eyes were shut and he blew little clouds of dust with each exhale. His breath was warm and smelled faintly of grass. She notice that his whiskers were black at the bottom and white at the tips. When she leaned closer to look into his furry ears, he opened his eyes slowly and looked right at her. She stared back at him and he smiled.
“That water is cold,” he said quietly.
“It’s not so bad when you have feathers.”
“Do not be offended, but I am too tired to sit up.”
“Oh please, stay where you are,” she replied, and settled down onto her belly.
Aoi and Ren talked off and on as Ren soaked up the sunshine. When he drifted off to sleep, Aoi waited patiently and was always sitting in the same place when he awoke.
The spring night came swiftly and covered the valley with a thick blanket of stars. Ren was reluctant to go and Aoi found herself asking questions to keep Ren from leaving. As the air got chilly, she began to shiver. Ren noticed her shivering and gently stretched out his forepaw and nestled her into the crook of his elbow. Aoi was too cold to be frightened and stopped shivering almost immediately. How soft and warm he is, she thought. She shifted slightly, and with the utmost care, lay her neck against his shoulder. Ren could not help himself and began to purr. Aoi had never felt anything so comforting since she had nested with her parents. Neither of them felt the need to speak, and after a time they both fell asleep without noticing they had done so.
Even the moon, who has been around the world so many times, was surprised to find a swan sleeping in the arms of a mountain lion.