I always meant to get them down here, so here we go.
I hope that this is a record of the things that I see and experience - a journal of stories and observations, anot a litany of how I feel.
The drive to S&K's was quick and uneventful, a smooth drive across flat country and even roads, car laden with luggage.
As I drive I imagined that everyting might go wrong - a mwin with a flat prompted me to think, "Hmm, I've nver had a flat in this car." I then became sure I would get a flat.
Close to K & S's (and my handwriting has just improved because turbulence over New York City was colossal) I was behind a truck laden with flammable and explosive things. I imagined vividly what it would be like if it were to go off - a bright flash and I would try and turn my head before debris crashed through my windhield' destroying my car. I would call K & S for help while I rushed to assist the person in the car head of me.
Well, whatever trouble I may have borrowed in my mind, nothing materialized and I pulled up outside K & S' house without incident.
As I rang the bell, I thought of my other trips here - with B that one perfect night - with A. not so long ago. We gathered our bags - I began my flattery of V. when he arrived, and soon the taxis arrived.
Our taxi driver had a story I'm sure - I noticed as he drove us through the bright blue day that he had a wedding band jamed onto the first knuckle of his left thrumb - ill-fitting and an eerie indictment, perhaps of a failed marriage or perhaps of a robbery turned tragic. Who knows? I didn't ask - though perhaps I shoul have. A story untold. A mystery.
We checked in amidst much fuss - our outlandish Carnivale clothing, big clunky steamtrunks and large plumed hats (you must pronounce that ploom-ED, not ploom'd) attracted attention. Of us all, I had the least hassle with two small bags and a backpack. We cleared security, gossiped furiously, and had some drinks. We boarded the plane.
Much was made - again - of our hats. Mine is the most outrageious - wide brimed with a huge plume, and festooned with lace. It is badly battered - the hat of a highwayman who has dreams of being a man of the mode, but has fallen upon hard times robbing stage-coaches in the hinterlands.
Perhaps a word on security - at the airport here in America for the first time I can remember, there were soldiers with M-16's. At first I looked just for rank insignia and unit patches - but after a bit of debate, I also was curious as to what model weapon was carried. It is the M-16A2, or A1 - an old and outdated model, indicating that the soldier are guardsmen and not active-duty. Even so, they are sharp and polished in their pressed uniforms and new black berets. On reflection, I realize that they carry their unit insignia on a flashon the beret, and not on their left shoulder that I can see. None of these young men wear the right-shoulder patch that would declare them combat veterans. They are boys, called to duty to guard their mother country.
Even now, I am rushing through the sky to Europe, where I have never travelled as a civillian. The air crew is polished, professional and very beautiful. German girls are lovely and poised. The lights are out in the cabin now. The meal was tasty, although the mousse tasted like urinal cakes. You must not ask how it is that I know how urinal cakes taste.
The melatonin and wine are catching up with me and the weight of miles and stress presses heavily I will sleep for a while, and wake in the country of my forefathers - in Frankfurt, Germany.