A high-speed taxi in the early morning darkness of a large, frenzied city waking as if fueled by high-test caffeine is a scary place to be. The car’s destination, an airport jammed with agitated pre-dawn travelers, shreds serenity with the sharp claws of urgency; checking bags, securing paper boarding passes in case the phone app jams, trudging—shoeless—through security checkpoints, chaotic clots of people wanting fast-serve breakfast, despite its astronomic prices. The frenzy doesn’t stop there. When the plane boards, assuming it does, thoughts will turn to the tight connection to the next flight. High anxiety is the price of air travel. High, high, high anxiety.
When we reach the destination, an agenda to complete and distribute, an article to write, a cat to retrieve from boarding, clothes to wash. The price of a week in a peaceful paradise and a weekend of gathering and bittersweet recollections.
Three nights in a spectacularly comfortable motel bed softened the experience. I want that bed.