|
Home was in the air
|
|
|
Betsy Herzog
|
|
Five American dollars, 500 Japanese yen, or 150 Thai baht, please,” said the stewardess when I requested a glass of red wine on the flight from Bangkok to Raleigh via Tokyo, San Francisco, and Minneapolis.
Paying five bucks for a meager drink on an international flight was not part of my plan. I was scheduled to be a bridesmaid in a friend’s wedding the day after my return, and I had concocted a foolproof plan to avoid the debilitating jet lag that might cause me to fall asleep on the altar in my poofy pink dress. My plan was to stay awake on the first eight-hour flight and sleep during the 14 hour leg. If I had trouble falling asleep at the allotted time, I would use two Tylenol PM’s and a glass of red wine to assist my sleep cycle. When she asked for five dollars, I grumbled something about why they need five dollars on top of the $1,500 that I had already paid them, but then ponied up. (Fliers beware: most airlines provide free alcohol on international flights, but Northwest recently began charging.)
The wine and the Tylenol did not have the intended effects, and I stayed awake for the majority of the flight. Instead of sleeping I exhausted the movie selections on the personal entertainment console (“The Bodyguard,” “The Hand that Rocked the Cradle,” “The Little Mermaid”). I wandered up and down the aisle while most passengers slept, their heads bobbing up and down as they drooled on their shoulders. I read a novel, a text book, and the in-flight magazine. I stood awkwardly outside the toilet while an Australian man spoke to me about his job with the Japanese ham industry. I glared ferociously at the Chinese family that had conned me out of my bulkhead seat at the beginning of the flight (I gave up that prime seating and precious extra leg room so that a family with two infants could sit together – but I wasn’t very happy about it.)
Thirty-seven hours of traveling without sleep leaves a lot of time for reflection. While my seat mate snored loudly (he had happily paid for four small bottles of liquor before passing out), I reviewed my summer experiences. During my two and half months in Thailand, I spent more time on the beach than I thought possible (being from the mountains); I crashed a motorcycle; I got (sort of) tan for the first time ever; I increased my tolerance for spicy food tenfold; I rode on elephants twice, and once with a drunk elephant-driver; I watched a wild boar give birth; I was bitten by a leech; I didn’t get malaria (knock on wood); I got a stomach virus and went to the hospital that is ranked by Newsweek as the best in the world; I paid $24 to get my teeth cleaned at the dentist; I saw the largest flower in the world (the bua phut); I saw the preserved glowing body of Vietnam’s revolutionary leader, Ho Chi Minh, in Hanoi; I saw Sen. John McCain’s flight suit that he was wearing when he became a prisoner of war in the “Hanoi Hilton.”
All in all it was my most exciting summer to date, although the summer before college when I worked at the Waffle House comes in a close second.
As I sat wide awake on the plane, my eyes burning from lack of sleep, and went through a mental count of my summer adventures it dawned on me: I’m not ready to go home. This strong emotion hit me without warning and cause immediate panic. Wasn’t I excited to see my family and friends? Wasn’t I eager to start my last year of graduate school? Wasn’t I ready to enjoy a new season of Carolina basketball? No, I wasn’t! If I hadn’t been pinned in by my slumped-over neighbor, I would have rushed to the cockpit and demanded that the pilot return to Bangkok.
“Turn this plane around,” I would have insisted, “I’m not ready for my adventure to be over!” Instead, I let the effects of the Tylenol PM finally rush over me.
I awoke as we landed in San Francisco. Still depressed from my earlier realization, I gloomily went through the motions at customs and immigration. Back in America, the lines seemed longer and slower; the airport was under construction and the place was noisy and confusing. Fliers yelled at airline workers, and people’s manners seemed less dignified than they were in Asia. I paid $13 for a BLT and waited for my flight back to the east coast.
As I loaded onto the airplane, I couldn’t find much to be optimistic about. My adventures were behind me. I was no longer in a place with cultural challenges, a place where I would learn something new every day, a place where the sun (almost) always shines and meals cost less than a dollar.
Then I glanced up and was surprised to see a familiar face walking down the aisle. I couldn’t place it at first, so disoriented by seeing an acquaintance after months of being surrounded by strangers. But there she was, a former teacher, on the same flight.
What could I do but see this as a positive sign? My gloom lifted as suddenly as it had set in. Home was in the air. I was home.
(Editor’s Note: Betsy Herzog, a graduate student at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, spent this summer in Thailand this summer. The Herald has featured several columns on her experiences there, and this is the final installment. Readers may remember Herzog’s previous series on her year as an English teacher in Japan. She is the daughter of Hal and Mary Jean Herzog of Cullowhee.)
|
