Plan A did not materialize this month but I had a couple of incidental “firsts” that will pinch hit for Plan A.
Early this month I participated in a book signing. I wrote in February about South Carolina People and Places and, following its publication this month, the four of us (authors and illustrator) autographed copies at the university bookstore. It was such a neat experience; I’ve wanted all my life to autograph my book so it’s pretty cool to have that dream realized. Two things are necessary when autographing: having a cool signature and a pithy comment. Well, seeing that my handwriting peaked when I was around 14 so that my signature looks like a bubbly teenage girl’s (and I have the pink floral cell phone to match) and that weeks later, I’m still waiting on a pithy remark to come to mind, I suppose I failed the two requirements for an effective autograph. Hopefully, I will work on this before I write and publish the next great American epic…
My second “first” this month is a little embarrassing because it makes me realize that my firsts are other people’s twentieths; there’s still so many things in life I’ve never done, but I hope to have many more years in which to experience them.
The day after the book signing, I flew on an airplane by myself for the first time (without friends or family accompanying). Flying is always a bit nerve-wracking to me; for some reason, the abundance of external stimuli at the airport overwhelms me: the voices over the intercom, the hordes of passengers scurrying by, the multiple gates, zones, and lines. Everyone else seems to know exactly what they’re doing while I walk around doe-eyed, trying not to look as clueless as I feel.
Even so, I planned my solo trip to Tampa to visit my sister this month. Upon arriving at Charlotte-Douglas and printing my ticket, flustered, I asked the agent, “What do I do next?” Now I had already been tutored by others as to what to do next, but I suppose I needed confirmation. A mere twenty feet away was step #2: the security checkpoint. There I benefited from watching and imitating other passengers as they removed shoes, liquids, and dignity, and passed it on through the x-ray machine. Sure, I’d done all that before, but it had been four years so I was a little rusty.
Once I’d finally made it in one piece on board the plane, my next concern was being able to pick up my heavy carry-on and stow it in the overhead compartment. I prayed: “Lord, please let there be a strong man nearby who will pick up my bag for me.” Sure enough, when I came to my seat, there was a tall, strapping Marine seated next to me who kindly placed my bag overhead. No big deal. You know, it’s the most miniscule details that get me worked up—but the possibility of crashing—I didn’t worry about that at all. (I noticed my obsession with details again when I spoke at my old school last week; before speaking, I fixated on the microphone and whether I would be able to adjust it to the right height when I was onstage. I wasn’t.)
Well, the flight was lovely—said Marine and I talked and talked almost the whole flight (I had forgotten to unpack my novel due to my anxiety to get that bag stored). As we landed, I got a little nervous again about those nitpicky details. I was a little overwhelmed about finding my way to baggage claim because my sister had provided such vague directives as “take the shuttle” and “ride the escalator.” What shuttle where? Which escalator? Her response to my fears was something like: “Elisabeth, young children and the blind fly alone; you can do this.”
Finally, we landed. When I fly, my ears fill with screaming pressure and it usually takes a few hours after the flight for them to clear (and yes, I chew gum the entire flight). The first time it happened, my sister and I had landed in France. We had not slept all night and we were trying to navigate a foreign airport laden with bags, and I was partially deaf. I would ask Allison if I was shouting, but it turns out I was whispering. The pain and semi-deafness persisted so long, I wondered if I’d gone deaf in Paris…you know how your mind imagines the worst in those situations. (I hadn’t.)
Anyway, I arrived in Tampa partially deaf, smiling sweetly and nodding when I didn’t understand what the Marine or the other seat partner was saying. Perhaps that was dishonest or plain stupid, but it seemed the thing to do at the time.
My kind Marine friend collected my bag for me and I pretty much followed him like a puppy dog off the plane and around the airport. Indeed there was a shuttle, but it was not quite so intimidating now. I don’t usually advocate following strange men around but these were desperate circumstances and he seemed reliable. Case in point, he eventually pointed me in a different direction from the one in which he was going, and I found myself in baggage claim greeting my sister.
I wouldn’t say I’m necessarily an expert flyer now; on the way back, I had Allison tell me twice where to go and what to do to get myself from Tampa to Charlotte, but I’m sure if I flew more often, I would conquer it before long. I can see myself now, striding through the airport with the self-assured gait of the frequent (thirty year-old) flyer.
