Welcome to Ohio

As I write this, I am currently in Columbus, Ohio for business.  I took an early flight from Laguardia via US Airways on Tuesday.  It’s my first time traveling for work and really, I was unprepared for the small dead feeling that accompanies being on a plane in one’s work clothing.  I became my own worst nightmare: the guy who uses 3 bins at the security line in the airport.  I had my travel bag, laptop bag (which must be checked separately from my laptop), coat and other personal effects.  I was the guy fumbling around with his belt while trying to put my laptop away in the bag with one hand.  Oh no, did I wear dress socks with holes in them?  Why yes I did so suck it.  I got dressed at 4:45am while still dreaming about living Leonardo DiCaprio’s life. C’est la vie.

I know what you are saying.  Traveling isn’t that bad and traveling on someone else’s dime is awesome.  Well sure in theory it is but in practice it is much more insidious.  You start doubting certain things in small quantities.  A creeping feeling makes it way down your spine that you’re now an asshole, someone closer to Willy Loman then is reasonable.

As it was, I made my way down to the gate to join a sluggish group of lugubrious characters all dressed in their business worst.  Brooks Brother’s black 3 piece suit? Check.  Iron free Oxford in white? Check.  Plain blue or red tie? Check.  Depressingly shiny Oxford round tip shoes? Check.  Who were these compatriots in arms?  These fellows with eyes that never screamed “Say Hi to me” but rather “Ask me for my business card. Please.” Some looked busy on important calls, other had their noses buried in some deck of powerpoint slides, circling or underlining useful information so as not to sound like an idiot at the intended destination.  Oh look those two are making small talk.  Can you guess what’s next?  If you guessed an exchanging of business cards then you win and I’ve got a special vile of arsenic with your name on it.

And so it goes.  Yippie, they are starting the boarding process!

“We are now boarding passengers in Zone 1.  Repeat, only Zone 1 passengers can board” is what the lady who looks like she got fired from Walmart says through intercom.  I look down to my ticket half desperate and half hopeful.  Please be Zone 1.  Oh fuck, Zone 3 – the plane’s welfare cases.  Great.

Zone 3 loads and I enter the plane.  I check my ticket and look back up at the seat numbers posted at eye level within the cabin.  Back and forth the eyes dart trying to reconcile my seat number with the seat numbers on the side of you when the realization sinks in – “I’m in the last seat on the plane.”  Great, you’ll get all the recycled fart air from the plane at the back as well as the not-so-fresh air that escapes the bathroom every time someone exits it.  Hey you, yea you guy with the pit stains, please don’t eat a fajita the night before a flight, you’re killing me.

You find your seat and determine its time to put your bigger bag in an overhead compartment and the laptop bag under the seat in front of you.  Unfortunately this is a small domestic flight with storage space tighter then a…well you get my meaning.  Suddenly, depressed married guys in matching haircuts are arguing over compartment space.  One guy asks if he can more my bag to make space for his cookie cutter roller suitcase.  I’ve wearing my noise cancelling headphones – the ones that make me look like I’m wearing plastic ear muffs – but my ipod is off so I can hear him.  It’s too early for communication so I stare at him until he feels uncomfortable.  He makes some motion with his body that either means he wants to bang me in the ass or move my bag.  I say sure with the implicit meaning that I did not mean an ass banging.  It’s not what I would imagine my first mile high club joining experience to be.

I’m still wearing my pea coat in my seat.  I look downright terroristy – or homeless – but fuck it I’m comfortable and lazy.  I’m not taking it off so I clip on my seat belt over my coat.  I then start remembering what I was dreaming about before this sordid ordeal so I start to drift away slowly.

“Ladies and Gentlemen” comes over the intercom in a husky faux-southern twang which seems like some joke since the plane is a contained sausage fest, “this is your captain.  We are being delayed due to a traffic control problem.  Sorry folks.”

Whatever.  You’ll get to the destination eventually right?  You pass out gently.  The plane shakes and you realize you are landing.

“Ladies and gentlemen” begins a new announcement.  “Welcome to Columbus.  The local time is 10am.  Sorry for the delay.”

Oh great, we were delayed by a whole hour.

Let's Get Away

Recently, I’ve become aware of a new traveling series being written in the New York Times by Bruce Weber.  In this ongoing series, the writer will be zigzagging his way across our country, from sea to shining (not really) sea on a bicycle.  His voyage, by his own estimates, will take 3 months and lead him back to his apartment in New York City.  This got me thinking about similar flights of fancy.  We often trade in these outsized romantic visions of running away to a foreign land for short or long periods or dropping everything and going on an extended adventure.  Most recently, and more famously, we see it in stories like “Eat, Pray, Love” where our protagonist (I use that lightly since the definition of protagonist in this example fully lays in the readers’ appetite and patience for a self-indulgent, annoyingly self-pitying narrator) has adventures and crazy times (“OMG read how she TOTES drinks that tequila sunrise!”) in foreign lands to ultimately discover the woman with-in.

And yet I don’t know of anyone who has undertaken a similar adventure.  How come?  Let’s set aside the obvious logistical barriers such as money and time.  When pressed on why they couldn’t just pick up and leave somewhere for a short period of time, most people would answer that they have too much “stuff” that they are tethered to in their current life.  This “stuff” usually includes family, work, friends, partners, etc.  Well, let’s break down this “stuff” into manageable bits to see if they couldn’t be put on hold for a little while:

·        Family – I’m going to assume that for most of my readers (read: 4 people) their family shares some sort of interest in their well being.  I’ll even go out on a limb and say that I’m sure most families if not outright love, then at least have a tolerance for the Neanderthals in their bloodline.  Family will always be there (in some cases, unfortunately so).

·        Work – I can only speak on behalf of my own experience at my employer but since I’m a self-absorbed, megalomaniac Gen-Yer, I’m going to assume my experience is shared equally by everyone worldwide.  My employer offers unpaid sabbaticals or leave, which I’m sure other places will offer (and if you have to do something “unseemly” for it, well then suck it up cream puff).

·        Friends – to be fair, I can really only barely tolerate most of my friends and I really don’t see them that often.  In fact, seeing them often would probably lead me to questioning why I’m friends with most of the people I’m friends with which I’m sure reflects poorly on me but then, you can do suck a donkey dick.  If you like your friends (and I’ll assume you’re a mental defective) well, we live in a plugged-in worldwide community where you could keep track of and communicate with your wee buddies.

·        Partners – oh Love.  Listen, don’t let me trample on your philosophies and all, but given the choice between a life changing experience and love, I’m most likely choosing a life changing experience and taking my chances. Or you could be more pragmatic and invite your partner on your adventure to which I say bollocks on you good sir.

·        Kids – so you don’t want to leave your adorable little shits behind huh?  Trust me on this; you’ll only serve to fuck them up even more should you stay.  If you stay, you’ll only resent them later on when they are getting pregnant at 16 and attempting to put you in an old folks home when you are 50.

So what is it then? Are we that afraid of the unknown, of failing at a task that really can only be measured in successes?  God forbid we get lost in some unknown place!  What will happen to us if we don’t instantly recognize any fast food joints?  What happened to the spirit that guided prospectors in the 1800s to the west coast through untamed lands?  Maybe our generation and technology has washed us of our adventurous spirit.  We’re no longer able to accept the unknown or have any desire to feel uncomfortable. 

Maybe it’s also the expectations heaped on young adults to achieve greatness early.  It’s depressing in a way to think of someone in their 20’s or 30’s so slogged down by “responsibilities” or expectations from those around them that they wouldn’t be able to pick up and leave and experience something immeasurable.  I’m not sure what the solution is then.  For now I suppose we’ll have to be content with reading about other peoples’ wonderful adventures and pretending our cubicles or office rooms are actually secluded rooms somewhere in the African jungle rather then neutral-colored soul suckers.