--- I awaken at approximately 10:30AM and begin a day of kicking about. Begin trying to to put final touches on the grand packing experiment. I pack socks and drawers, but I don't realize until five minutes before I leave that I have forgotten to pack my pants. Quite the impression I would make on the Brits walking around town in only my socks and delightfully charismatic undergarments, eh? The ladies would be on me like a dog on a soup bone.
--- After a frenzied final bout with packing, carelessly cramming item after item into increasingly scarce suitcase space, Pops and I take off for O'Hare at ten minutes past five.
---Mere seconds later -- I realize I have forgotten half a dozen things, but lacking the time to retriece them, we push onward.
---Trying to assuage my anxiety (and anger at being a more absent-minded professor than Jerry Lewis), Pops stops at the local Mexican restaurant and buys me some authentic ethnic cuisine. The food goes down like fine wine -- smoothly, deliciously, and with only the slightest hint of an aftertaste. I can almost feel the gravel and dirt beneath my feet as the sun pounds me on my stroll through the heart of Mexico City. This truly is the food of sunny Mexico -- capable not only of curing my hunger, but also of transporting me to another world. I must say, this Taco Bell really does have some remarkable burritos...
--- Arrival at the airport is uneventful, and only ten minutes past my intended arrival time of 6 o'clock. I wait in the line for my airline, the prestigious Air India, to check in my two pieces of luggage. To be rather blunt, the line looks like the queue for the opening of a Gandhi film.
I feel rather conspicuous with all my tannin-laden friends -- somewhat akin to the sole Caucasian lightning bug in the sea of twilight's black; a mere speck of luminescence amidst a drove of darkness. Bags checked, I walk towards the gate.
--- Spying the crush of people, and noting the premature nature of my arrival (I still have an hour and a half before takeoff) I decide to check out the duty free shop. As Kramer is so apt to sing, so too am I -- "I like to shop at the duty free shop."
After browsing through the best pornographic magazines other nations have to offer, I find what I am looking for firmly planted between the mountains of discounted liquor and the piles of international trinkets -- a Plenti-pak of gum.
I make my purchase and wave farewell to my last transaction of American money for rougly five months. Adios, Abraham, adieu, Andrew, and goodbye George. My dear paper note pals, I hardly knew ye...
--- Having wasted only five minutes or so with my dalliance in international porn, I decide to step out into the cool Chicago night once again. The chilly embrace of my city's swirling winds quicken my heart. I shall miss the bite of my mistress' breath -- 'tis supposed to be cold in London, but nothing can compare to the cold shoulder of the Windy City.
Ah, Chicago in the heart of winter -- where the softest of breezes can freeze your skin and shorten your breath more than your body remembers possible from the lessons learned the year before. Such a chill can really make you feel alive, though -- the mild discomfort only serves to make you appreciate the status quo that much more.
--- The air chilling my bones sufficiently, I bid farewell to my father and enter the gate. I shall miss the old man over the next few months, much more than I think he or I can understand at the time...
---I check in at the gate after a fun little episode at the security station. In the midst of a raucous little crush of people waiting in line, someone gets bumped and does not take too kindly to it. Tempers flare ever so slightly, but they are soothed when someone gets called a "candyass." I'm not quite sure if this remark was aimed at yours truly, but I would like to think it is (mainly because my foot still has the bruise on it from where Mister Fatty Pants crushed it with both his foot and his subsequent train of suitcases.)
Seems my months of hard word have finally paid off. All the blood, sweat, and tears spent with the TV and my "Buns of Steel" video seem to have been worth it. To have someone -- a perfect stranger, mind you -- think so my of my posterior as to make a comment on it, comparing it to the delectable likes of the sugary vixen, candy, is astounding. It proves, once and for all, that I really DO have a sweet ass...
--- Boarding the plane, I catch a glimpse of my chauffeur for the next seven hours -- a jumbo jet with the exterior windows surrounded in Indian decor and the interior plastered with an interesting floral wallpaper. There are also mustachiod Indians in turbans flying around on magic carpets -- a wonderfully ironic use of stereotypes when you consider who put it there, I reckon. These humorously out-of-place visages pepper the plane in random locales.
I get to my seat to find a young female co-ed contained in my chair. It takes mere moments for the question to be posed -- "Do you mind switching seats with me?" Being a chap with an easy style of living and a kind heart, I of course reply that I do not mind at all.
Good deed done for the day, I make my way back to find my new posterior perching position. When I arrive at my new home I find, guess what? -- another young lass. And guess what she asks me? That's right, "Do you mind switching seats with me?" Once again, I reply, "Of course not."
Good deed #2 accomplished, I know make my way to my new seat. I pass my original seat, pausing to wave hello to its new inhabitant, and then come to my third seat. And what before mine eyes should appear? -- no, not Santa and his trusty reindeer, but rather yet another female (the thought occurs to me -- I go roughly 21 years without meeting more than five girls, and within the span of five minutes I meet more than half that amount? Where the hell has this problem been my entire life?)
I can tell by the look on her face what her intentions are before her mouth even opens. The words eventually come, though -- the increasingly dreaded phrase, "Do you mind switching seats with me?" And, the $50 follow-up question is this -- what does your fair author reply? Does he grow a pair and tell people to shove off and get their tiny little asses (but not too tiny) back in their seats, or does he continue to be the walking mat of Air India's patrons? Far too simple an inquiry, I know -- almost rhetorical in nature -- because I, of course, replied, "No, I don't mind" for the millionth time today.
As I make my way back to the front of the plane, I pause again to wave to Chair Stealer #1 and to blow a kiss to Perching Post Purloiner #2. As I make my way to my seat I can almost hear the scribbles of St. Peter's pen as he jots my name atop his list of future entrants to Heaven's pearly gates.
Arm getting tired from patting myself on the back, I arrive at my destination to find, guess what? No, this time all I encounter is blissful emptiness. Exhausted from my trek I collapse into the embrace of the lumpy foam and dank smell or dirty sweat-stained and old fart-laden fabric that can only be an airline chair. I rest after uttering silent curses to my parents for making me an altruist instead of an asshole and to myself for not wearing sensible walking shoes -- my feet are killing me...
--- Curses calmed and demeanor distilled, I meet my fellow travelmates. Two young lasses from Southwest Missouri State are currently making a Tim sandwich -- Jenny on my left and Melissa on my right. We jabber about the usual nonsense and then realize than an hour has passed us by and we still have not taken off yet.
Almost on cue, indecipherable information from the pilot spews from the speakers -- mostly because of his thick accent, but a sizeable portion of the blame has to go to the fact that he has apparently placed the microphone in his mouth and then proceeded to talk to the crowd.
After a few more minutes on the ground, purposely accepting gravity, we then decide to end this charade and shrug off the shackles of terra firma, boldly entering the highway of the sky. The takeoff is bliss, as is the knowledge that my journey has finally begun.