Closing my eyes on the airplane is like taking a shower. I always have the best ideas when I can’t write them down. And by the time I can find paper or turn on my computer, they aren’t half so brilliant as they were in my head. The secret is, they probably never were quite so ravishing, but they always will remain that way as a wordless idea.
Perhaps my inspiration comes from flying. Having a window seat. Even though it means I must climb over two people to use the restroom. The sun is just about to set, and the ridges of clouds below me resemble the waves that splash below them. That is enough to inspire anyone.
I have flown around the world in much less than 80 days. Counting Detroit as my hub—I went from Detroit to Hong Kong via the arctic circle, Russia, and China: 27 hours (15 in the air, 12 changing time zones). Continuing, I flew 4 hours to Japan (1 hour was time zone change). Now I am flying up over Alaska and then back down to Detroit, actually landing 2 hours before I left: 29 hours. Or something like that. Time zones confuse me.
I feel fat. Sitting in airports and in my little cubby of a space, doing nothing but eat whatever they feed me. And International flights feed you well. Love that veggie choice. It means they always give me my food first, because I am special. I am sitting next to a grandpa and his grandson. They just toured China and went on a cruise to see the Terra Cotta soldiers. He says it is his last big trip because he is running out of time. He is sleeping. And I have to go dehydrate.
That was all I had time to do in Japan. We flew over Mt. Fuji, or where it would have been if the clouds hadn’t hidden it. I got off the plane, where I bypassed the squatty potty and chose a normal toilet. By the time I walked to my connecting flight, we were boarding. I watched Japan out my window as we took off and flew over the ocean, imagining someone flying over it, just like me, but to drop a bomb that killed so many people. I can’t understand war. Funny how that is the only tangible thing I connect with Japan.
I went to the art museum in Hong Kong. No American art to be seen. Made me laugh that I was expecting it. They have their whole history without us. How did it become an us/them thing? When did everyone non-Asian suddenly look familiar when I passed them on the street? I am ashamed of myself. I didn’t learn any Chinese. My attempts at “Thank you” were politely accepted, but not correct. I got used to seeing everything bilingual until the Chinese symbols became almost invisible to me, like a pretty doodle or underline to the English words.
Only a couple of things jolted me out of my comfort, such as driving on the other side of the road. Amazing how that changes your mentality. It is not just driving, you see—it is trying to cross the road. It is finding yourself trying to go up the down escalator, because they are on the other side. It is walking against the flow of people in the subway, even though the floor is nicely colored with arrows that tell you where to walk to help others such as me.
Crossing the street was an endless frustration because not only did I not know which way the cars were coming, but half the time there were fences and bridges or tunnels. I quickly learned to allow myself to be lead along with the crowd, feeling like a piece of cattle, reading letters to go to which exit to know which direction to go and not look so foreign.
The other times I felt frustrated always had to do with the restroom. Asking for toilet paper was easy enough, carrying around an empty roll and pointing, but for a place ordinarily so efficient, I can’t figure out why they always seem to be out of toilet paper. We need some brain power for that invention. Everyone (women) have learned to carry around their own toilet paper to survive. But as for further communication, the day I left something in the bathroom and it disappeared created such a mime game that neither I nor the cleaning lady ever got anywhere past “good morning.”
But it was a wonderful experience. Hong Kong is beautiful. Waking up to a view of the harbor every day made me realize I really do always want a bit of ocean in my life. The people are kind and polite, answering my questions tirelessly and with a smile. The tofu is great, and there are so many kinds of mushrooms. And I discovered egg plant. It looked like a bowl of slugs to me, but I closed my eyes and ate it anyways and it became my favorite. Chris, another facilitator, called it walrus skin. It really did look pretty bad.
I also enjoyed eating with chopsticks. They make noodles fun, and with rice I became good at the shovel-in method. Some of the sauces were better than others, but all of them had me wondering what exactly they put in there to make them like that. I never reconciled to noodles for breakfast, but there was always cornflakes. I would jump at the chance to return, or go anywhere else international with Supercamp. Definitely my way of traveling.
I was a bit worried about coming to Hong Kong. Brazil was the first place I went that was “far away.” And look what happened—I fell in love with it. Falling in love is wonderful, but it sure does complicate your life. And if you give something you love the time it deserves, you think twice before falling in love again. I didn’t want to fall in love with Hong Kong. I could never survive polygamy.
Anna asked me once how I was sure Brazil was for me, if I hadn’t been anywhere else. I said I just knew. She said she wanted to go everywhere once before going back somewhere twice. I said once you knew you had the real deal, you didn’t need anything else. Well, I’ve been somewhere else now. I’ve been quite a few places. And I appreciate them all. I think the travel bug is permanent. But they do not hold me like my family does, or like Brazil.
I know as soon as a turn off the computer I will have more brilliant thoughts. Oh well. I need brooding time. You will just have to imagine my next great thought for me.
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