My 6:01 AM wake up call turned into a willingly painless 5:20AM awakening. The night before tour always provides a troublesome sleep for a hopeful sleeper. Pre-tour sleep looks something like this: The sheets become gnarled with my sleepless body's frustration as I weave in and out of consciousness as an ungraceful seamstress might with her cumbersome needle and thread. I couldn’t stop thinking about exceeding the 50-lb luggage weight limit imposed on checked baggage. The consequences of such extravagant, overindulgent packing would serve up a $50-$100 sentence. With the extra allocated time this morning, I unpacked much of the contents and condensed my suitcase to assure I wouldn’t exceed the quota.
I was unexpectedly abounded by a morning energy that I would assume was summoned by the zealousness of this tour’s initiation. Now as I sit in row 17A, Washington DC bound, I find my eyes starting to appear slightly glassy with an early afternoon fatigue—redbull? A must.
Airplanes are like time capsules. The passengers float in their own little worlds suspended above the hustle and bustle of the city—the tranquility of the countryside. As they are transported through time and space, on the ground life continues, awaiting for the plane to land, the cabin doors to open and for the passengers to rejoin life.