My flight onto Asheville, North Carolina is delayed because the crew hasn’t arrived yet, and then a big thunder storm hit, and lightening strikes inside the airport compound means that no planes are moving for a while. A good while.
I’m sitting here enjoying hearing the sweet drawl of the Southern accents and seeing Black faces again. Laura tells me that there are still big divisions between the African American and white communties in Asheville, and that she is engaging with the African American community through poetry.
Atlanta airport is huge. Detroit airport was humungous. At each airport there’s a slick, modern, burrowing indoor train to take you to your gate. Edinburgh airport is a small rodent to these dinosuars. Everything here is huge. Big cars, big roads, big fridges, big bellies. The high average carbon footprint of the average American is so alarmingly visible.
Delta is the Greyhound of the skies, the Ryan air of the States. Most flights are overbooked.
On landing at Detroit we are told that small hand-held electrical gadgets can be used again, and fingers are out tapping cell phones, smart phones, ipods and the like before we even get to the gate.
All of us flying with so many personal possessions. How would it be if we travelled with little but the clothes we stood up in and a full welcoming heart? No gadgets, no chargers, no wheel-pulled cases. Just a notebook and a pen and my glasses to read.
Give me a red crested Sandhill Crane to ride. No air conditioned cabin, Coca Cola vending, intercom announcements and flat screen news. With a ka-r-ouk, ka-r-ouk we’d be off taking a non-prescribed line safely below the clouds, powered by a generous cubit of feathered grace and with the summer air on our legs.