close

I’m sitting on the stainless steel railing underneath one of the escalators that carry thousands of people every day from curbside drop off at DCA to terminals B and C. My phone is tethered to the wall, suckling electricity so I can write this post.

According to my Fitbit I’ve taken 9,478 steps since getting here this morning. And I’m not flying anywhere. I’m reporting on the holiday rush (except there is no rush). It’s the getaway.

Confirmation:

 

Seven hours and a dozen live hits in and I’m really beginning to appreciate how Tom Hanks felt in The Terminal.

I’m well-versed in the best sellers list, or at least which publishers are willing to pay to give their books prime placement at Hudson News. I don’t know if I’m more excited to read Sarah Palin’s latest tome Sweet Freedom (which I can only imagine has something to do with patriotic diabetes) or Jenny McCarthy’s Bad Hair (which is presumably about hair that’s been vaccinated.) My…what a time to read books on aeroplanes!

I have all of the “Special Security Announcements” memorized. All bags are securely strapped to my back.

I’ve talked to scores of people about their travel plans…and almost all of them look at me like I’m asking the question in Latin. Most responses: it’s been a pretty effortless journey. There’s some news.

I’ve moved on, the phone is adequately charged. Now I’m sitting in a massage chair, tiny little pulses are shaking my ass into oblivion. I feel like super-speed Shakira. I’m not entirely certain that this is enjoyable or advisable.

But. I. Can’t. Move.

I ate Qdoba earlier…like tons of it. I think this chair just dislodged a fist-sized glob of queso from my upper GI tract. I’m out of this chair before there’s a mess.

Time to do another live hit anyway. The news watch never stops, even when the news is that everything’s OK.

There’s a natural ebb and flow to the day. The security line stacks up, and then within a few minutes it’s back to normal. Although for the fliers in those lines I’m sure like it always seems like forever. It’s like that planet on Interstellar where every minute is like ten years.

I just took my picture high fiving a cartoon turkey, and the moon is rising over the hills of Anacostia. It started as a red bulge, and minute by minute the familiar landscape of the moon presses past the horizon distorted and contorted by the refraction of photons in the last femtosecond of their journey to my iris. Like a droplet of water falling in reverse the moon finally breaks from the horizon restored to its spherical state, its soft light reflecting off the Potomac.

I have one more hit. I just passed 11,000 steps. I’m also qualified to work at the information desk.

Restlessness aside, there’s something about watching this great migration of humanity as we jet to far-flung destinations to return to our familial roots. Even being hurtled through the air at hundreds of miles an hour, there’s something primal to this. An innate urge to reconstitute the whole. And thousands of us connected through time and space as we pass along this singular place.

Some of us taking pictures with cartoon turkeys, like me…and this woman Christina who was among the scores I interviewed today while staring at a flat-screen display of everyone else who took a picture with a cartoon turkey.

“I think it’s humbling to be on this page with all these other people, this is our touch point for the day. It makes us all part of the same thread that’s weaving us all together.”

Travel safely.

Tags : 57 Days of BloggingairplanesReagan National AirportThanksgivingtravel
Kris Ankarlo

The author Kris Ankarlo

%d bloggers like this: