In Transit

Sweating and dehydrated in the Abu Dabhi airport, but happy to be on my way. I like long flights, mostly because I’m accomplishing something tangible through patience and passivity.  Not sure if this reflects well.  Read “Exit West” by Mohsin Hamid (thanks, Barbara) and felt a lot of sorrow for our disrupted world, and yet the way he described displacement–both by geography and by time–was moving.  Also watched “Phantom Thread” and appreciated both my sister who is not creepy and my wardrobe that is not punishingly impeccable. The airplane food was hot and soft and salty and I realized, again, that I do better in situations where people observe lines.  Those who travel with kids are brave.

And, since this blog is about improv, I think I had a call-back of sorts today (we called them “lotuses” when I started in the Monday Company at the Brave New Workshop; a scene or a character or a single line would keep reappearing throughout the show, gaining traction with each iteration).   Here it is: when I moved to Minnesota in 1992 I arrived by way of Fargo; the Mall of America was opening that weekend (dang) and every hotel room from Alexandria to Rochester was booked.  This was frustrating, and when I found out that the high-pitched screaming sound that was blaring whenever I got out of the car was a tornado siren I was unnerved (I asked a guy at a gas station what I should do; he said, “go inside,” and then drove off).  However, in Annandale, MN  a man overheard me talking to a check-in clerk and said, “stay the night in our church.  We have a cot and a music room.”  And so I did, along with a Vietnamese couple and their 3-month-old child.  It was perfect.  I’m not one for supernatural signs, but I did feel like Minnesota was going to take care of me, and it has for over 26 years.  I love my adopted state; for all the frigidity it has been kind and gracious and welcoming.   I know this isn’t always the case (do read “Exit West”), but sometimes, for all sorts of reasons, it is.

And then today, at Heathrow Airport, I heard my name over the loud speaker (it wasn’t a tornado warning) (see: a call-back) (or a lotus) and went to the Etihad desk where the gate agent wanted to see if I had a proper visa for Pakistan.

After I showed it to her she said, “you look disoriented!  Let’s get you on the plane right away.”  Now, I am sweaty and dehydrated, but apparently I also looked dazed (that “Phantom Thread” movie was unsettling), and so she ushered me onto the plane before boarding began.  I felt weird and kind of guilty that I was singled out for this special treatment (and I do wonder if my American-going-to-Pakistan status makes me unusual or suspect), but it also felt humbling to have people I don’t even know watching out for me.  Just like the guy in Annandale.

I’m also humbled at how  much of the world speaks English.  We big, sweaty Americans take up a lot of room. Just ask my latest seat mate.  He could answer because his English is perfect.