Flying South: The Easier Mode of Transport

First flight is to D.C. Our journey from security to the gate is accompanied by pleas for people to voluntarily turn in their roller bags to be checked (“for free!”) to their final destination. No one wants to part with a bag.

We board. Distracted and wildly excited at having snagged an overhead spot for my carry on (not a roller bag, but a bike pannier), I proceed to sit in 7C, which will turn out to be the wrong seat. To my left, a woman says Good Morning. She sounds exactly like Jessa in Girls. Not just because she’s English, but honestly she must be from the same town, the same street. Her tone is such a perfect replica, I think maybe she’s Jessa’s sister. I say Hi to her Good Morning, and then the man who’s supposed to be in 7C announces himself, startling us both. He kindly agrees to take 7D, my correct seat, across the aisle. Soon after, a woman appears and begins to sit in 8C, next to Jerry. He asks if she’ll switch with me so I can sit by him. We switch. 30 seconds in and I’ve had three seats. No one seems to hate me, though, or even mind, and in my superstitious need to find good omens, I think this bodes well for the biking. It even indicates, I’m fairly sure, that I’ve chosen the right bike seat. During the flight, though, Jessa’s sister talks to her seat mate pretty much nonstop, and I begin to suspect that seat mate will, in fact, hate me by the time we land at Reagan.

Still so weird to call it Reagan instead of National… {here, political comment redacted to avoid antagonizing any Republican readers from my father’s side of the family}.

Hard this morning, leaving pets. I tried to reassure them that two months is NOT that long, and nice people would be living with them. Wagging in a way that conveyed hope, guilt, concern and hunger in equal measure, Bondi looked like he knew exactly what was up. The cat, though, was either clueless or could care less. He just kept madly tackling the dog’s worried tail.