Charlotte to Madrid

We awoke to the sound of aircraft taking off and landing.  I went out the front door of the hotel for morning exercise – Tai Chi next to our parked car, and then a half-mile or so around the parking lot.  I had packed my running clothes and a new pair of shoes and I intended to get in as much exercise as possible, but I really didn’t know what to expect.  Two years ago, when we traveled to France, we met a man named Jean-Charles on our first morning in Paris who was the owner/operator of Paris Running Tours.  He was a friendly and enthusiastic man only a few years younger than I was (but a much more accomplished runner), and he took us on a three-mile orientation run from the hotel all the way to the River Seine – the perfect thing for jet-lagged legs, and a great orientation tour of Paris, but the only run I managed to complete in our time there.  Martha had been unable to find a similar tour in Florence, so I was on my own.

In the elevator to the lobby I met a young man in a crisp navy blue uniform, a pilot or flight attendant, and we chatted briefly.  “Where are you off to?” I asked him, and it turned out he was from Venice.  “It is a good time of year to visit!” he said.  Good weather, fewer people.  That was encouraging.  We took the shuttle to the airport and waited in rocking chairs to board our flight at Gate A, while out the window we could see aircraft being moved into place ready to embark or disembark.

So many people passed through this airport, every possible race and nationality, and I listened to the wonderful music of foreign tongues as they walked past us.  We had lunch at a Mexican place, Tequileria, probably our last Mexican food for a long time, I thought.  And then we were boarding, and taxiing to the runway, and feeling that wonderful acceleration as we suddenly lifted into the air.  I am not at all a frequent flyer, and I am still humbled and amazed at the miracle of flight, climbing higher and higher, watching the My Flight on the tiny screen in front of me.  4229 miles to Madrid, seven hours and 21 minutes, 63 degrees below zero outside, 558 mph, 37,000 feet.  What a fragile vessel we were in, this ship made of aluminum and plastic, rocking occasionally in the turbulence of transatlantic flight.  David Bowie came to mind:

“For here am I sitting in a tin can
Far above the world
Planet Earth is blue
And there's nothing I can do.”

I watched most of a very funny Olivia Coleman movie called Wicked Little Letters, hoping I could finish it on the return flight, and then, drowsy with Dramamine, Major Tom nodded off to sleep.