Yes, the Puke Finds Me.

February is long gone, and tomorrow the time changes to mark the shift of seasons. The loss of one hour of sleep hardly seems significant, given the constant state of shift my mind and body have undergone these past few weeks. From coast to coast, over oceans and through many clouds I have flown. Italy called our names for years, and finally, Mackenzie and I took the pilgrimage. Goddard college called me back for yet one more residency, and I made the sojourn to the shores of Port Townsend. This evening, I sit in the familiar "N" terminal at the Seattle-Tacoma Airport, awaiting my flight back to Greensboro, back to the regular rhythm of living, back to the familiar smells and sounds of the day, back into my husband's expectant arms.

Exhausted as I am, it is hard to articulate in words the impressions of beauty from these two trips that I will surely revel in forever. However, I will try to share a few...

Venezia:

A cloud of pigeons dissipates to reveal San Marco. We step off of the boat, onto age old stone. The sound of large bells fills the square.

Tiny, narrow streets lend themselves to exploration and getting lost. Little treasures we find along the way.

The soft glow of golden windows reflects upon the waters of the canal. Vaporetti slowly amble through the dark. Faint music can be heard.

Musicians play with passion and skill in the beautiful chapel. Warm sounds resonate through wood, off of stone and through our bodies.

Oh, how to be the belle of the ball. Childhood dreams realized.


...........Yes, in a perfect world, I would have written much more, edited the material and posted. However, last night I was jolted right out of my quiet reverie. I have said it before, and I will say it again: THE PUKE FINDS ME. I am only too lucky to seem to always be in the path of a vomiting drunk, of a pregnant dry heaver, or in this case I would guess, a nine year old with motion sickness.

As I was sitting at the deserted table of the closed Burger King in terminal N, a little girl and her father stumble quickly off of an adjacent jet bridge. The girl is yacking into a grey plastic bag. She sits ten feet from me, and again yacks into her bag, albeit unsuccessfully (as we all know, in the case of children, bags do little). What really put the cherry on top, was that her father leaves a wad of paper towels, and the bag of barf on the table for some poor janitor to clean up. I wanted to yell at that man, but I was so panicked by the puking girl that I quickly unplugged my computer and walked clear across the terminal to be as far away from the situation as possible. I hoped with all my heart that their connecting flight was not my flight. Lucky for me (or maybe for them), it wasn't.

So there you have it. Life goes on. I didn't even get to my Goddard impressions. Oh well. Perhaps it isn't important. Back to the grindstone tomorrow.

~Cara