Pre-flight.

Sitting and sitting and sitting. That’s what traveling is all about. I sat in molasses traffic for what seemed like days on the way to the airport. Now here I am sitting in the airport bar, waiting to go sit on a plane to take me to another airport where I get to sit some more just to sit on another plane. Then when I arrive in Halifax I get to sit through a conference. Then all of that travel sitting gets repeated. No wonder Americans are so fat; all of our technological advancements go towards making sure we can sit on our asses everywhere we go. We literally fly by the seat of our pants, traveling thousands of miles without working a single muscle except our jaws. On the television here at the Sea-Tac Bar is an eating contest, grown men shoveling cold cuts into their mouths hand-over-fist. This should be shocking but it’s not, I see this same behavior everyday in the news. Gluttonous nihilistic expansionism has infected every facet of our society and it makes me ill. That’s what eating like that can do.

When I got to the airport and checked in at the desk I was unsure what to do. Airports are confusing places to me, and given the fact that I have yet to fly in the post September 11 world, I feel like I’m on some kind of stimulant. The woman at the desk can only be described as usual. There was nothing very distinctive about her. I think maybe she picked up on my analytical vibe, because she got her revenge. She made a little mark on my boarding pass. When I got to security, the black fellow who directed traffic circled her little mark numerous times and directed me to an alternate path. I had been selected for secondary search. This means that the woman at the front desk thought I was a terrorist. Or maybe she was a pathetic middle-aged hag, who, jealous of my youth, looks, and rebellious spirit, decided to throw a wrench into my travel momentum. I will say however, that the airport is an amazing place to be a watcher, as the Guinness kicks in I am able to sit back and relax for a minute and take in the madness. America, land of the greed and home of the insane.

Vancouver.

Boarding the flight to Vancouver I handed the man my ticket, at which point he looked at it and said, “Here he is." I thought to myself, ‘They really do think I’m a terrorist.’ He gestured toward another man, standing behind me.

“You’re Robert Richards?” he asked in a very businesslike manner, which shocked me further because anyone who knows me calls me Rob.

“Yes.” I replied, considering my options for escape.

“Well, I’m Robert Richards also. You checked in before me and it was quite a process to figure things out. Anyhow, I just wanted to meet my namesake.”

So Robert Richards from Montreal and Robert Richards from Olympia walked out onto the tarmac and up to our plane, chatting about where our families were from and what we do. Being that I’ve been alive for 27 years and never met another Robert Richards, I’d say this could have been a once in a lifetime experience.

The flight from Seattle to Vancouver took about a half an hour and I passed the time trading between staring out of the window of the small twin prop plane and reading a magazine provided in the pocket of the seat in front of me. The magazine had one decent story in it. It was about lying and how it’s become more and more prevalent in our society. It was an interesting read but I was disappointed that it made no mention of Mark Twain’s writings on the subject while basically cribbing them.

The plane finally landed and I made the long walk from ‘Arrivals’ to ‘Departures’ with a stop in customs to claim nothing. I had many things, on an ideological level, to claim, but left them off of my declaration card in order to give speed to the process. I never would have guessed that bringing a stack of newspapers into another country would have caused so much concern, but every single security person I encountered wanted to know about them. I soon found the correct line for domestic check-ins and proceeded to wait. When it was my turn I handed the sultry, dark-haired woman my information; she was a pleasant improvement to the grisly beast I faced in Seattle. She began hacking away at her keyboard and developed a puzzled look on her face. She informed me that the airline had cancelled the flight on my itinerary, and rescheduled me for a flight to Toronto that left at 4p.m. This just so happened to be four hours prior to my arrival in Vancouver. She called a manager over and explained the situation to her. The manager informed me that all they could do was put me on standby for a flight that left close to the same time as the imaginary flight on my itinerary. So now, I am waiting for my flight, in another airport bar, watching grown men beating the shit out of each other on the television. Every eye in the place was glued to the screen.

Bust!

Neither of the two flights I was standing by for had a spot for me. I went back to the main check-in area and found the nice Canadian woman I had spoken with before. She was just getting off shift, heading out of the door actually, but dropped everything, grabbed a co-worker who was also off the clock, and they proceeded to scour their computers to find a way to get me to Halifax. There was nothing there. I could not possibly get to Halifax until Monday, two days after the newspaper conference was over. If I thought I had enough money to make the whole trip I might have gone anyway just for the experience, but eight dollar airport beers drain a pocket quickly.

With no other option reasonably available I decided to admit defeat and return to the land that I love. The nice lady got me a hotel, which Air Canada paid for, along with breakfast. It was a kind gesture, a fine example of a nurturing socialist country, not something I’d expect in the U.S. at all. The hotel was nice, the bed was comfortable, but nevertheless I had a rough and restless sleep. I awoke quite a few times during the night, but not from dreams, perhaps disappointment.

The next morning I got my breakfast and headed to the airport. I had timed everything just right and had only a twenty minute wait for my plane. The Vancouver airport is just like any other I’ve been to. The people are desperate to fill the void caused by waiting. Any conversation will do. “So, going to Seattle eh?” or “You hear about blahddy blah blah?”; “Oh yeah, blahddy blah blah blahditty blah!” followed by savage guttural laughter that chills you down to your toenails with it’s insincerity.

Marooned.

Everything started going as planned and I began to feel like the whole twisted experience was finally winding back down to normalcy. Then I arrived in Seattle, placed a phone call to my ride and found out that they had not left yet. It takes around an hour and a half to get to the Seattle airport from Olympia, so, of course, I was once again stuck waiting. I picked up a copy of National Geographic at a newsstand, grabbed a sandwich, a banana, and a bottle of water and hunkered down for the wait.

My ride eventually arrived and I was so relieved to be away from airports I could have peed myself. We hit the I-5 and headed south, we were flying, it was a beautiful day, a bit hot, but the freeway breeze cooled us quickly. Then it happened, all of a sudden, without warning. It was the desolating depravity of gridlock. It was as if I had run into a brick wall headfirst. The hot sun poured into the car, quickly filling it with molten heat. We spent over 3 hours total on that freeway. From Sea-Tac to Olympia, we averaged a top speed of about 25 miles per hour. The sun beat us like a Guantanamo prison guard and we were as helpless as a detainee, trapped in our metal coffin, no escape from the abuse, sweat pissing out of every pore. Bi-planes were flying overhead doing tricks, practicing for an upcoming air show, providing us with a bit of entertainment to take our minds off of the heat. But it was mostly ineffective. This was the kind of unmerciful heat that no amount of bottled water or fanning could relieve. It was a long, grinding, unforgiving journey to say the least.

The little blue Volvo finally motored us into Olympia city limits and I felt home. It’s not the physical environment and its effect on me that I’m talking about. It’s not anything tangible or quantifiable; it’s a feeling in the bones. I felt I was home. Olympia does that for people. I’ve heard it told from many people who were transplanted here for college or work or just because. They go back to where they grew up and don’t feel it anymore, but as soon as they get back to Olympia that feeling of home sinks in. You know you’re back where you’re accepted. You know that there is a community here that you fit into. The unique thing about Olympia is that no matter what your niche is, you belong here. There are always people that complain about hippies or hipsters or radicals, but those sentiments are shallow. There is no great fundamental divide in Olympia. There is no us versus them. Olympia, in a way, has achieved a collective consciousness that is, at least according to my experience and knowledge, unduplicated. The best thing about leaving Olympia is and will always be, coming back.