We have one-way tickets to Los Angeles. We’ll get one-way tickets to Singapore at LAX. The bags are checked, carry-ons ready to be stored, and in about an hour, you know those seats will be in their upright and locked positions. After all the packing, all the arrangements, all the last-minute stresses, this day has come where we leave the United States for months on end.
There is a certain detached part of me when writing, always. This detached part of me has been labeled under many different names, but always it’s much like an out-of-body experience, a visitor to my own life, quietly cataloging and recording. It’s how I cope with stress and change, I suppose. It’s been an exercise to not retreat to that mode. In that phase, everything reads like a story happening to someone else, and I want to experience my own story. It perhaps makes for less objective writing, but isn’t that the point of this blog?
With so many boxes and bags, I had no choice but to pay the outrageous $5 to rent a cart for 10 minutes to get from curb to counter. That worked well enough initially, but when Bev dropped part two of our bags off while returning the rental car, I looked around and found a cart laying around unused. Looking around and seeing nobody really caring, I grabbed that cart as well. Immediately, two handlers materialized to take the cart away, chastising me for not paying for a cart (even though I had clearly purchased the other one I was using.) They brusquely took away the spare cart while yelling at me for a few seconds and then turned their backs, a job well done, I suppose. The profit margins of the airport were well intact thanks to their vigilance.
Backs turned, on to the next passenger to yell at, I gave them the finger.
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