I begin this post somewhere between
Seattle and Houston, rather miraculously airborne after the second or
third most eventful travel experience of my life (the other two
involved multiple avalanches and a very pleasant historical tour of
the city given by the Prague police, respectively).
This voyage began, of course, with 17
inches of snow, layers of ice and rain, and hundreds of downed
branches and powerlines, all of which changed life as we know it in
the South Sound the week before Alejandra and I were due to leave. As
of this writing, many are still without power, including the Westside
Co-op, and neighborhoods are in threat of losing access to their
wells. Like most houses on the Eastside, ours lost power Thursday
afternoon; our phones, being cordless, went out at the same time. It
was only by walking to a friends' house nearby that had kept power
through the whole storm because of its proximity to certain state
buildings that I found out our flight had been canceled. We had been
re-booked, it seemed, and though the details of the new flight were
strange—there was an isolated leg from Mexico City to Caracas on
Saturday, while the rest of the ticket didn't have us flying out from
Seattle until Sunday, we had a super-tight 35 minute connection in
Houston, and the departure and return flights were all mixed in with
each other on the itinerary list, it felt good to know that we had
something, as I closed down
my friend's computer and walked back home to my darkened house. The
next day, my partner and I took the bus to Lacey and purchased a
corded phone which had the added unexpected benefit of picking up a
local radio station and playing it in your ear while you placed a
phone call (we got storm updates this way for a while). However,
after an hour and a half on hold with the airline trying to clarify
what I'd seen online, I decided to trust that the flight would work
itself out. There was plenty else to pay attention to.
That night and the coming days, we
hosted friends who didn't have heat, learned to cook eggs on our wood
fireplace insert, and witnessed our community come together to
provide for each other in ways we had rarely experienced. Friends
would show up at each others' houses, needing or offering a warm
place to stay, phones to use & warm meals, bus drivers stopped
anywhere on the street you needed a ride, the night sky seemed
brighter without streetlights and everyone was out walking, heading
somewhere warm to eat or spend some time with neighbors they may not
have seen otherwise.
Saturday afternoon and evening, my
partner and I helped workers at the Westside Co-op unload the coolers
and freezers of hundreds of pounds of meat, dairy, and frozen fruits
and vegetables still at temp but not likely to be for long with the
power still out and no clear prediction of when it would be back on.
Twice, we filled the Food Bank's van with the kind of natural and
organic high-protein food people in our community have had a strong
need for this winter, and which will be especially welcome after an
entire week with the Food Bank closed.
Even as the power outages continue, and
there are predictions of flooding in the rural areas south of town, I
have some hope, based on the cooperative principles I saw in action
this past week, that the community will come together to provide.
How strange, after all we experienced
this past week, to arrive at the airport today, having caught a ride
with Alejandra's friend over clear roads. How strange to lug our bags
up to well-lit counters, and to expect that within 24 hours we would
be in a land of sun and seasonal fruit and thunderstorms, and the
jackets we're wearing would seem unnecessary in the extreme. When we
arrive at the ticket counter, it appears there's a problem. My ticket
cannot be located. Ale's, though it does seem to exist, cannot be
accessed; only a summary can be printed. In addition, all flights to
San Francisco have been delayed 2-3 hours, again for weather. The
agent searches diligently and in the end says that Aeromexico has
Ale's —we'll have to call them to have it “unlocked.” As for
mine: “the robot has canceled your reservation. It's as if you
never paid.”
We decide to try the ticket counter of
the airline that issued our original tickets. It's still an hour and
a half before our flight is due to board. When we arrive, the agent
who pulls up what she can of our information says, simply, “what a
mess.” It quickly becomes obvious that with the delays in San
Francisco, our only chance of making Caracas by morning is to get on
a flight that leaves in half an hour. The women at the counter click
into go mode. They call our gate, sort through the jumble of our
reservation, check our baggage (without entering it into the
computer, a trick we hope won't prevent our bags from joining us in
Caracas). Ale and I watch, interjecting what we hope are helpful
clarifications (yes, we are going to the same place, no, we aren't
spending any time in Mexico City, yes, our return dates are slightly
different). Hearts thumping, hands shaking, we pull out whatever
information the women ask for. We demonstrate that our carry-ons fit
in the sizer. It's as if we've been named contestants in a game show
for which we don't know the rules.
Finally, we are given tickets, told to
turn right after security, and to run. We cut in line, thoroughly
annoying our fellow travelers. At the scanner machine, my deck of
cards in a plastic case momentarily holds us up. Shoes back on, we
sprint for the shuttle. Catch our breath while the train runs. Run up
the escalator. We make the gate, where they allow us to board, but
tell us we must check our carry-ons. Unsure if we'll see our bags
before Caracas first thing in the morning, we repack like lightening
in the jetway.
Into my purse I stuff a book of fiction
and one of poetry, my toothbrush, and an unfilled travel mug. I
forget all the food I packed, including a heavenly chunk of Mopsy's
Best cheese from Black Sheep Creamery. I also forget the guide book
and Spanish verb reference I had been planning to study on the plane.
Ale forgets her camera. We say goodbye to the changes of clothes we'd
packed in case our other bags get held up. We arrive at our seats,
panting, thirsty, having been spoken to sharply by the flight
attendant who took our boarding passes, and who had no way of knowing
that we hadn't been drinking lattes in the concourse until the last
minute. We're a mess, but we make the flight.
Several hours later, we are about to
arrive at the outrageously named George Bush Intercontinental
Airport. I close my eyes and dream a little. I see flight attendants
wheeling carts of baby yogurts and goat kefir for hungry passengers.
From one cooperative experience to another. The trip has begun.
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