4 January 1999

Turning

My face was plastered backward and hung from the wall behind me while my stomach did its best to crawl up into the vicinity of my throat.

My heart hammered, my lungs labored and all over my body, my skin broke out into a cold sweat.

Flight number 028 from Paris had just hit a pocket of turbulence caused by the high winds that flung themselves across the Atlantic a few days ago.

I clung to the armrests, disliking the feeling of being on a roller-coaster ride and completely unable to get off. Unlike some of my fellow passengers though, I managed to hang onto my lunch and my dignity.

Having crossed the Atlantic by plane many times in my short life, I can easily say that this was the worst flight I have ever been on. I suppose I have simply been lucky: I have never had a particularly rough one before.

On this return trip from a Christmas/New Years' visit to Sabs' family, not only was the ride rough, but the service and food were equally terrible. The only redeeming factor was the in-flight movie: Antz. In light of the plane bucking madly around us, it was perhaps, even more hilariously funny than it might have been otherwise.

Coming into Washington, the dying light of the sun was faintly perceptible at the edges of my vision, as I raised tired eyes from my trembling hands. The wind had died down somewhat and the landing went off without a hitch: finally something good in an otherwise awful day.

The flu-bug which flattened Sabs and inconvenienced his mother made my sinuses ache and the thought of a hot shower and cozy bed were the only light at the end of this dim tunnel.

Home, an hour or so later, I skipped the shower and fell into bed, for several hours of dreamless sleep interrupted only be the howling of the lonely cats outside the door.

As the first light of the new day crept in, I padded out of the snore-filled bedroom, collected all four felines and fell asleep again beneath a blanket of fuzzy, purring bodies.

It's good to be home.