Leaving on a Jet Plane

"All my bags are packed, I'm ready to go!"  This song was written by John Denver in 1966.  I was sixteen that year and had never been on a plane.  I used to lie on the lawn of my family's Johannesburg home and look up at jet trails in the blue sky.  Flying seemed so romantic, so exotic to me. How I longed to be high up there, flying  to some unknown destination.

And now I travel a lot and dislike flying more all the time.  What happened to the romance?  NPR had a call-in program yesterday about why people hate the airlines.  Perhaps I'd enjoy it more if I traveled business class or if I didn't do such long hauls, or if there were no issue with baggage weight limits or if I didn't have to take off my shoes at security, empty my water bottle, take out my laptop, stand in queues and then sit cramped in an overbooked flight.  I did one horrendous trip squeezed between two very large people who could only fit into their seats with the arm rests raised. I shrunk into the center of my seat, pulled in my arms and tried to concentrate on yoga breathing.  I hope for more space on this flight.

I have packed and unpacked.  Pruned to meet the weight limit. My carry-on bulges with bags of vitamins and pills, carefully counted for 7 weeks away. When I was much younger there would have been lots of make-up, my hairdryer, perhaps some fancy high heels.  Then there were the years it would have had diapers and baby food.  I guess, though, through all of the stages of my life, there would have been my necklaces.