I awoke, and got ready to board an airplane.
I took the kids to school, cleaned up the kitchen, and Ben and I drove to the Cedar Rapids airport, me yammering all the way about the things he should remember to do in my absence. He dropped me off and after a lengthy (for Cedar Rapids) security check (apparently the current threat level has recently been raised to “orange”), I flew off to Detroit.
Mid-flight, I had a glass of ginger ale and two homemade chocolate chip cookies I had packed in my bag. (Good thing, we didn’t even get pretzels.) At one point during the flight, I looked up from my book and out the window. At first I thought we were over water—a still but rippling sheen covered in an even sprinkling of small round white clouds that cast shadows on the ripples. But no, it had to be land. It was too big a body of water to freeze and it was so perfectly still. But what kind of land could it be? Then I saw the beach. It was water: Lake Michigan. Shortly after, we landed.
In the airport, with an hour to wait, I ate the scrambled tofu burrito I had packed (snatched out of the freezer at the last minute so I didn’t have to buy myself any food at the airport). The potatoes were pretty near popsicle in the middle but otherwise it defrosted nicely. The remaining cookies too. I sat in a comfortable chair and watched a sparrow flutter around over the chairs and hop across the carpet. How did a sparrow get this deeply inside the airport? Come in through the jetway? He looks perfectly happy, pecking for crumbs. I wonder where he’ll fly off to next. In the meantime, I’m flying off to Harrisburg, Pennsylvania.
When I travel, I always feel like a burden is lifted off my shoulders. Maybe it’s the temporary reprieve from responsibility for others. Whatever it is, I can feel my forehead unfurrowing and the heavy parts of my face lifting. I start to think about who I am and what my life is, and I feel like every quality I have and every piece of wisdom I own is all rolling around in one of those big bingo cages, and I can’t remember what any individual ball in that cage says on it unless I reach in and pluck one out. Then, I think: “Oh yes! B-12. I remember learning that. I wonder what else I know? I wonder who else I am?” I’m jolted out of my airport reverie by the surprisingly loud sound of that sparrow, singing.
I’m looking forward to meeting Pennsylvania, and Dutch Amish country…and all the Golden Retrievers at Golden Gate, the farm where dogs live who come into the Delaware Valley Golden Retriever Rescue.
Coming in on the plane, I got some good advice about where to eat from the guy sitting next to me, who lives in the area. Beefy and moustached with a hunter's cap and a good heart, he obviously loves good food. I'll check out the Silk City Diner tomorrow, on his advice. He also pointed out Three Mile Island as we flew low over it just before landing. I admit I had no idea it was here! He remembers being a kid in school when the sirens went off after that nuclear accident. "None of us had any idea what to do," he said. He has twin fourteen-year-old girls. One, he says, is a leader but easily influenced. The other, a follower. So, he put them in private school. He called his wife just before take-off so he could remember the name of that diner.
I arrived around 4:30 and picked up my rental car, then made my way down the Pennsylania Turnpike, past at least two large billboards proclaiming the horrors of puppy mills. One frankly proclaimed that in Pennsylvania, it is legal for puppy mills to kill the extra dogs and spread them over the fields. Nice.
I arrived in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, just in time for dinner. I checked into my hotel and then surveyed the local scene. Lo and behold, I am just a couple of miles from Stoudts Brewery! I drove over and enjoyed the sampler: I chose Winter Ale, Abbey Triple, Old Abominable Barleywine, and Scarlet Lady. The Winter Ale and Abbey Triple were both excellent, full-flavored and on-style. The Scarlet Lady...eh. Not very interesting. Watery. The Barleywine was good but a little sweet and not as much body as I would like.
Food-wise, I ordered a salad made from locally grown organic mixed greens, red onions, tomatoes, and croutons, topped with the house vinagrette, which was rich, oily, and tangy. I also ordered the House Pizza, a gorgeous homemade pizza brimming with big thick hunky slices of portabella mushrooms, fresh spinach baked until it was almost crispy like cereal flakes, and local artisanal blue cheese, plus some cheddar. Really good, I ate most of it and then polished off the rest back in my hotel room (I meant to save some for breakfast, I swear!). Enjoyed a local bluegrass duo during the second half of dinner, too.
My first impulse whenever I come to a new place is an enthusiastic, "I want to LIVE here!" I'm not sure why I do this because I like where I live, but I always do and always have. When I was a kid, my sister and I pretended we owned--and lived in--every new place we visited with my family (restaurants, state parks, other peoples' houses). I think it all has to do with attachment. If I like something, I want it to be mine, like a cute puppy. But yet, I also love travelling because of its ephemeral nature, passing through something beautiful or witnessing something poignant or just true. Like the two young brunette bluegrass musicians, heads bent close, quietly rehearsing a harmony before broadcasting it over the mike, say, or the way the boy bends his long body over the tiny mandolin and practically assaults it to produce the most vigorous knee-slapping rhythm.
I guess that's the purpose of writing this--to figure out what exactly it is I find out about myself when I travel--and what I find out about the world. But it's all the same thing, right?
Tomorrow, it's off to the Golden Retriever rescue for a day of dogs.
No comments:
Post a Comment