How very cumbersome it is to travel with a suitcase, a backpack, a tube of archival fine-art prints, and a baby bump. On the BART train, I had to wedge the wheels of the suitcase between my feet so that it wouldn’t roll anywhere, which left a gap big enough for the tube between my knees. Perfect. No wait, there’s the backpack, remember? I can’t put it on my lap because something else is already occupying that space. I had to sort of angle it at a diagonal on my lap which was infringing upon the boundary of the next seat. What kind of people board the Bay Point BART train at 5 am? Construction workers. They seemed to prefer wearing their hardhats, but some pinned it under an arm while holding their tool bag and lunch box in their hands. Some had their reflective vests, while others looked like they probably packed their work clothes with them. Big guys with weathered hands tipping hardhats at each other and asking questions like, “Where you building at?” Some even had tubes of their own containing building plans. But my tube was definitely the biggest and was attracting a lot of attention. I must be the mysterious construction worker upstairs if I have a tube that big. Yes, my children, I have the plans for all your building sites. The grease stained trucking load strap glued to my tube as a shoulder strap fit right in with everyone else’s grease stained lunch boxes and vests. The entire train filled up and even some people remained standing, before one desperate person—a woman with a cheetah-print tote bag with a cucumber sticking out—decided to take the seat next to me. She was sending me oh-so-subtle hints with her knee that she didn’t appreciate my infringement upon the border of our seats. But what can I do about it? Maybe you can come up with a better way to schlepp all this stuff around.
In the security check point people were trying to strike up conversations and asking me if I was an architect. No one escapes the mystery of the tube. I was anticipating airport employees having an issue with my tube and demanding that I check it, so I was already preparing my spiel about how I shall not let my fine art prints with archival pigments out of my sight. But no one said anything and it was fine.
Upon boarding the plane, the tube fits with about 6 inches to spare along the length of the overhead compartment, so I did the world a favor and put my backpack under the seat, having occupied enough space up above already.
On the second plane, there wasn’t enough space for my tube in the overhead, so he got bumped to first class. I can just imagine him, sipping from a tall glass through a cookie straw. Hello sir, would you care for one of our specialty spring rolls or veggie wraps? Meanwhile, I sit next to Mr. Fidgety Musician, tapping out complex rhythms with all four of his appendages. Deep scars on his arm suggest either surgery or self-harm. I am flying into the third most mentally ill state.
In keeping with my tradition, I boarded the plane and the next thing I knew I was in the air. I missed the takeoff because I fell asleep. That makes the third time I have done that. I think I slept for about an hour.
In keeping with my tradition, I boarded the plane and the next thing I knew I was in the air. I missed the takeoff because I fell asleep. That makes the third time I have done that. I think I slept for about an hour.
A boy sitting near me in the plane eagerly scanned out his window and reported to his mother everything of interest. “Mom, the cars are like sesame seeds, and the people are like pepper!” But why stop there? The mashed potatoes floating in the sky look pretty interesting to me. Lots of butter pouring through every nook and cranny as the sun set. The roads looked first like fettuccine, then more like bacon. Maybe those seething algae-infested ponds are really delicious puddles of pesto, there’s only one way to find out. And what about what we are landing on? The giant pancake of the earth. Or maybe it is a doughnut hole, depending on when you are from.
But now I have arrived at my dorm. It feels a bit like a jail cell, but I remind myself that this is a very old building. It is hot and humid, kind of like an oven. An oven suitable for baking bread. And now I am prepared to lay down and drift into sleep and float up into the giant sprinkle-covered doughnut of the cosmos.
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