Fly Away Home
...or rather, to the homeland. Or is it the Holy Land? I'll settle for the homely land, which I hear it's not.
That's right, I'm flying to Israel tomorrow. As is typical with me and trips, I'm not really believing it, and probably will experience the aha! moment while waiting in customs at the other-end airport. One critical note: I am not checking any luggage. No one is getting the chance to lose my stuff; that's happened on the last three flights I took.
Meant to write during the holidaze, especially while working insane retail detail in the two weeks before the Christmukkah weekend, but the insanity got in the way. It was all a good time, and feels so so long ago. The holiday week was however brilliant, with four family and friend and beautiful scenery sites visited. The high point: sweatlodge in the snow with Benj, Skelly, Angela and Ross. The low point: losing my luggage en route to Christmas--see above--and thus going to midnight mass in Kathleen's mother's clothes plus my grubby sneakers.
Then I worked on job applications (how can they be so time-consuming? is it dishonest to change your resume with each specific application?) and tried to make some actual money back in the health-food joint and furiously read books about Israeli and Palestinian politics. Furiously means fast-ly and also angrily, here.
And yesterday I ran around trying to do errands and meeting up with a local Lanka scholar (hello, Alan) and kind of spilling my guts. After seeing Pig Iron's fantastic Gentlemen Volunteers with K-Ross, Fire Boss, P-Thrash, and Biggsie Shortie, and eating an atrocious "hoagie," the hard drive crashed and I wept as I cycled home through the empty moonlit streets of Powelton Village.
I have more thinking to do about why I'm tense and upset, but as it was, I came home and made millet-almond pudding and drank some bourbon and inhaled sandalwood until I softened the bands in my shoulders. Went to bed without packing, shame on me. So now, I pack.
Watch out falafels!
Updates from the road: I'll try.