Going Home and Then Home Again.

While waiting for my plane in Chicago this weekend, my attention was drawn by the couple opposite me. They were notable not for their inactivity, but because they were the only people to stay seated on that particular bench. While I sat in the waiting area, at least four people within about twenty minutes would sit down, realize that the bench was unbalanced, stand up and try to find another seat. I was watching this scenario reinact itself again and again with feelings of amusement and guilt. Amusement because I myself had sat down thirty mintues earlier, found the bench to be unstable, and moved across the aisle to more stable seating. Guilt because I had a perfectly good seat next to me, but because of the "personal space" taboo, no one would sit right there, even in a crowded terminal (and I wouldn't have wanted them to, either.)


While I wait to board, I am struck by this couple's sympathetic placement. They lean towards each other, comfortable in each other's personal space. They are still. They are wearied, as they did not move from the unsteady seats. They are contained and do not need to interact with the other waiting passengers. They spoke very little once seated, and then the woman read while the man napped.


There is so much about travel that is monotonous. There is so much that is painful. To get from one place to another can be rewarding, but for most of us, especially those of us who make trips frequently, it is draining. To keep our energy from escaping during the moving about, we usually tend to wrap ourselves up mentally and emotionally, if not physically as well. And the more mundane the journey, whether for work or simply a familiar trip, the more we shield ourselves from the needs of other passengers, the wants of our neighbors, the worries of people other than ourselves.


I've traveled this route numerous times - Kansas City > Chicago > Indianapolis and reversed. I've flown into or out of the Indianapolis Airport hundreds of times, on vacation, for school trips, for work, coming home for the holidays. IIA is my home airport, the airport where everything is familiar and the routes are predetermined. This is an airport I know. And though I had been told the airport had moved, that is was new and spacial, my mind hadn't adjusted itself to this fact. As far as my mind was concerned, I was flying into the same airport as I had left in months before.


When I stepped out of the gangway, I felt as though I was misplaced. Which boggled my mind, as I was in Indianapolis, not at Midway, not Schipol, not Luton or Gatwick. I've walked into unfamiliar places before, but never when going home. I had to follow signs to find my way to baggage claim. I felt overwhelmed and confused. I don't usually feel this way in airports. I know that drill - baggage claim, car rental (or metro system, depending), hotel, etc. But this was so big, so white, so unexpected. It was clean and new, shiny, decorated. There was miles of corridor. Roped off areas for security. The baggage claim area was huge. The ticket offices immense. Food court and arrivals area magnificant. So different from my memories. It seemed galactic.


With all the events and chaos of the holiday, it seemed like a moment and I am back at the airport. Though I am prepared for it, the huge glowing white mass on the horizon seems out of place for central Indiana. The return flights were, as most flights are, uneventful. I was struck, however, by differing vibes of my two legs of my journey. The first leg was full of children (both happy and sad) and they conversed (and cried and sang and fought) without considering their volume in a crowded, cramped interior. The adults, to be fair, were fairly chatty as well. The second leg, later in the evening, was delightfully somber. Delightful in that I was ill, I was tired, and I wanted to be home. Somber was what I wanted. Delightfully somber worked until we started our descent, that final, final part of the journey, and my congested head decided to explode. I am fortunate to not often feel pain, but when I feel the pressure in my inner ear I regret ever getting on a plane. That is when travel is no longer an adventure, but an agony to be endured until I am safely home.


That maybe one of the aspects of travel I enjoy most. The going and the seeing and the thousand small, every day adventures are why I leave. But the stories and the memories and the thousand small, everyday comforts are why I come back. I travel because I love to come home.

I'm getting on a plane tomorrow and I couldn't be more excited. I haven't spent Thanksgiving with me family in years and my father is an amazing cook. And you can go to good Thanksgivings, with lovingly prepared food, but it isn't the same as when your mom calls the weekend before to ask if you have any special requests and before the sentence is finished you reply "Spanikopita". Because you've been thinking about it. A LOT!

It's been a few months since I've had reason to fly, even Midwest city to Midwest city, and I've missed it. It's a headache for many and I can't imagine flying with children, but I enjoy it. For an hour or two no one will bother me except to ask if I'd like a complimentary salty snack or soft drink. I know that one of the purposes and benefits of travel is connecting with your fellow travelers, those who you'd never meet but for this breif moment in history. I know that there are people out there, interesting people, people who have stories and trials all their own. When I'm on a plane,though, or in a coach or a train or a bus (pretty much any mode of transportation, I guess), I want that time to reflect. To read the books that I can't get to during my normal life, to write about the things I don't have time to write about. To have some "me" time in admidst hundreds of other people's lives.

Usually I've had the good fortune to not travel at peak times, but not tomorrow. I'm going to join the throngs of people trying, just like me, to be home for the holiday. While this can be frustrating, it does offer excellent people watching opportunities. Little kids being normal, acting like kids do, in an abnormal situation. This can lead to either annoying or cute situations, but either way it's interesting. You also run across many different types of people in a close setting that you wouldn't typically. And of course, the large loads of people + possible inclement weater + flying metal boats = possible adventure. I don't think there will be any Planes, Trains, and Automobiles, but hanging out in an airport with thousands of strangers can be loads of fun.

Today I tried to determine which books I am taking for my seven hours of travel time (there and back and in the airport) and I've decided on four: How To Look at Everything, A Journey Around my Room, The Undressed Art, and The Lamp of Beauty. A few more might make it in, as well. Maybe I can have some movement in my reading sidebar!

Safe travels, everyone!

The "Last" Nice Day Before Winter

When I woke up the other day, I was surprised by the bright sunlight shining through my window. It has been stormy and grey for a few weeks, and when it is bright, it is bitterly cold. This is so typical of November that I didn't really think too much about it, except to hate it, and to hunker down until Spring.

However, this day was strangly balmy for November, with warm winds, and crystal clear sunshine. I knew that it wouldn't last long, so after I finished my work for the day, I went on a walk. I have been saying to myself that this will be the last nice day of the year for a month now, but I think with Thanksgiving a week away, it must surely be the last nice day.

When I go for a walk, I always take with me a book, my journal, a pen and my camera. You never know when an idea will present itself, if you'll run across something interesting, weird, beautiful or all three. Whenever I wait to write about something until I get home, the raw power of the thought is already diluted, with other thoughts, passing scenes, reminders of other issues at home or at work. When I'm walking, my mind is free to flit from image to image, and I can stop to sketch, with images or words, to preserve whatever emotion or thought is created.

I am a lucky person able to steal away some time today. With the time change, it's past sundown by the time the work day is finished and that makes the nice days more precious. I am out during the afternoon, and by four the sun is setting. When the sun leaves, so does it's warmth, and the winds that were warm turn bitter again. The lines of cars with their headlights on start to swarm intersections, each person cocooned in their metal traps, trying to get somewhere faster than their companions on the road, thinking about work, groceries, projects, children, parents, problems. Rarely do they consider the other metal traps as anything other than obstacles, because metal does not have hopes and dreams, families, problems. It is hard for the walker to feel anything but pity for the trapped people, trapped alone in metal pods, not connecting to anyone else. Why connect with the fellow machine operators, when within a block they and their machine will be gone and forgotten. When you walk, it is impossible not to connect with a few of the people you see. Something will catch your eye, something will hold your attention, whether it's an outrageous outfit, a charming toddler, a handsome stranger, an unintentional vignette at a coffee house, or just the person walking opposite you, who meets your eye as your paths cross.

This day, there are a few fellow pedestrians. I am taking pictures, caught up in my own agenda, but aware of some of the activities going on peripherally. On the museum lawn is a young couple, relishing the fading daylight and each other's company. Some young men play a game of pickup football. Workers are putting up Christmas decorations, lights and bows and wreathes, shouting instructions from the ground up the ladder - "A little higher, more to the right." A few workers of the lawncare staff are raking ginkgo leaves, the golden carpet that I'd shuffled through an hour earlier. There aren't many leaves left on the trees now. A few holdouts, but most have fallen to the ground, have been swept away by rakes and winds, gathered up in corners, along building walls, and in gutters. One of the best sounds of fall is the crunch of leaves under my feet, and the rustle of the leaves as they are moved this way and that by the winds. Sometimes they seem to have a direction in mind, like the birds that are flocking, gathering in the trees along the creek. A large gust blows from behind me, sending leaves swirling in front of me along the path. After a pause a different wind blows them back again, as though the previous orders have been rescinded.

From across the lawn I watch the lawncrew start throwing gingko fruits at each other. A messy, smelly game, and I am glad that I am far away from their antics, as they chase each other across the lawn to adminster the perfect shot. The work day is drawing to a close and their enormous job, gathering the leaves that fall on this huge lawn, is work that deserves to be ended with a little fun. I notice the shadows getting longer as the sun slips away, the shadow of the tree I sit under is creeping up the hill. How quickly the day ends now! One minute it is afternoon, the next, dusk. The light seems to get thicker. It's as though the rays are working harder at the end of the day, trying to cover as much of the earth as they can before the darkness is complete.

Along with the sun, some flowers are trying to extend the season. Each bush seems to have a few stalwarts left, tiny, valiant points of color in the overwhelming blanket of greys and browns. Against one protective wall is a rose bush, with some buds and blooms still fresh. Some hydrangeas have dried on their stalk, leaving shells of brown where color once was. These are beautiful, too, and are more fitting to the scene than the rosebush. I feel like a discoverer in either case.

As the sun sinks lower, the rays pick out the spiders' webs that before were invisible. A patch of grass shimmers as the wind stirs the blades, causing the tiny silken threads to glisten with the reflection. There are benches looking toward the west, out over the creek, at it's bridges and fountains. Down the hill, a girl has set up a chair and is crouched, sketching it and it's lingering shadow. She is alone, separated from the bustle of activities, from the traffic that rushes over the bridge, from the speed of other people's lives. I take a picture to remember this girl who's stillness is so similiar to my mindset. She doesn't know that at the top of the hill I am standing, soaking in the last rays.

Armistice Day

I thought it would be appropriate to write about the National Wold War I Museum and Liberty Memorial on the commemoration of the last day of that war. Though the day is now celebrated as Veterans' Day, for all the other men and women who have served our country throughout the years, I still find myself refering to it as Armistice Day and then getting funny looks from people who dare to try to have conversations with me. And by dare I mean "are actually trying to comprehend the things I say and formulate a logical sequence".

But when my mother came to visit about a month ago, I took that opportunity to check out somethings in my hood that I wouldn't go to on a regular basis. One of those things was Memorial and Museum. I've passed it a hundred times, seen the flame at the top of the tower at night (*spoiler* - it's all lights and steam, which is good considering the energy crisis), and even walked around the grounds once, but I'd never gone in the museum. I'm not a war fan, though I guess what I should say is that war, its history and its tools, doesn't fascinate me the why it fascinates many other people.

But my mom enjoys a good museum, regardless of content, and I'd been wanting the check it out (as it is the only one in the US) since I moved to Kansas City. And I wanted to go up in the big tower, because what else is a big tower for if not for going up in? I ask you.

I allotted two hours, after lunch, for the museum. I figured that two hours would be more than enough time, as my mother reads every single piece of literature for every single exhibit and does every single interactive game that museum curators can come up with.

However, we decided that we'd go right after breakfast, then have the afternoon free for other sight seeing around town. We went to the museum and walked arond outside the grounds for a bit (it was unexpectedly sunny and warm and I didn't want to jink the pleasant weather by going into the bowels of the earth and ignoring it) taking pictures of the big tower, the sphinxes, a beetle that was there, too, and looked interesting.

It was a good thing we started our day there and that we didn't have specific plans for the rest of the day. Our easy two hour overview became an intense three hours - we left for lunch (which you don't have to do, as there is a cafe) - plus another hour and a half later on. We could have stayed longer if they'd have let us. Much, much longer.

The museum is made up of three parts - the main part of the museum is under the earth, very symbolic of all the fallen soldiers, and the other two halls above, making up part of the Liberty Memorial scene. Going up in the tower is a seperate fee, but the whole thing is well worth the $10 adult admission. We did the two Halls and the tower after a late lunch, therefore didn't have as much time as we would have liked. The tower closes at 4:15, so we went up there for as long as they'd let us, then into the Halls. In the first Hall (sorry, I can't remember what it's called), the one to the West, the guard immediately started telling us the significance of the huge mural that commanded the wall. All through the museum, guards, some of them I suspect of being volunteers, would come up while we were looking at a specific exhibit or item and give us more information, a bit of interest, or make a connection with what we were seeing and another aspect of the museum. Extremely friendly and well informed.

Refering to the mural, however, I could not imagine the enormity of the finished product, let alone the manhours and skill spent painting this epic. What you see there is not even the finished product, as impressive as it is. Because of neglect and space constraints, much of the painting had been cut away, or repositioned. In fact, the largest part of the intact painting is in the West Hall, and sections are displayed in the East Hall. Also in the East Hall are computers showing what the finished product had looked like, as a giant panorama of the victorious Allies. You can highlight each figure and read about their significance during WWI. I wish, wish, wish we'd had more time there.

The tower was interesting, as well, if in fact just a large tower. I speak only for myself, but I love seeing all over the city, especially a city that I enjoy so much. There are similar things in Paris, London, New York and Chicago, and I see no reason why Kansas City's contribution to very tall buildings shouldn't be just as recognizable.

The main section of the museum is the most impressive part, even barring huge murals and skyline views. You first walk across a glass bridge to the musem, under which is a symbolic field of poppies. This is lit by skylights and i couldn't imagine a more beautiful or appropriate entrance. Once inside, you start out with a 12 minute "up to the start of the war" documentary, which fills in all the necessary information about why and how all these different countries ended up being at war, and why this war was, to a certain extent, unavoidable. Even if you know your WWI history, I wouldn't skip it, as it sets the tone for the rest of your time. The area of the musem, while divided mainly into "Before the US was involved" and "After the US was involved", is a large open space, but with so much paraphernalia that it seems downright cozy. You are led chronologically through a horse shoe shaped main area. Around the center there is a wall that cites, month to month, the progress of the war. It also includes data tidbits, like what was being invented, or who won a Nobel Prize. Included there are a few instances of Kansas City trivia, emphasizing the "hereness" of the war.

The whole museum makes the war, this war that my parents weren't alive for, which some of our grandparents might not have participated in, and which happened far from our homes - it makes it a present, and local, entity to remember. All over the world people were being affected in major ways, their entire way of life being altered. To see how each countries' people reacted is also an insightful inclusion.

The creativity behind the exhibits is inspiring. Though decorated in black, white, muted browns and the judicious use of vibrant red, attention is drawn from case to case, wall to wall, and room to room. There is propaganda from all over the world, including my favorite, French toilet paper with a picture of the Kaiser on it. Each exhibit has some quote taken from a child's diary or soldier's journal, something that humanizes the guns, the uniforms, the grenades. There is a series of trenches reconstructed, with recorded voices to describe the soldiers experiences. There is even a reconstructed crater hole, meant to look like it has exploded a house and this is the detritus left over.

One of the most best uses of space (in a place that seems to never end with its tucked away little corners) is in the submarine/airplane warfare. They have the requisite missile, a diorama of flight sequences, the stats for the aces throughout the war. But they also are projecting movies on to the floor. The airplane one is interesting, but the one of the ship blew my mind. It looks as though you are standing on the ship. You even see it launch a torpedo. Very, very cool.

I could continue to expound on the incredible treasure we have here, but I'd rather you experience it for yourself. But let me know when you plan on going, so I can check if I'm free, too.