Eating that particular sandwich followed by a chocolate bar and a walk through the duty free mall is in part what has kept my plane aloft from Heathrow to JFK for 19 flights in the last 5 years. Having an aisle seat on the left side of the center section of the aircraft plays another important part. Once I’ve finished talking along with Virgin’s safety demonstration video, all that’s left is to set my iPod to whatever song I’ve chosen for takeoff, flip up the hood of my sweatshirt to conceal my headphones and click play as the plane begins its charge down the runway. In an unabashed flaunting of airline safety rules, I can not recall the last time I turned off all electronic devices until the in-flight crew made the announcement that it was ok to resume use of those deemed approved by the laminated card in my seatback pocket. When my flight reaches takeoff speed I am invariably seated with my left leg sticking out into the aisle, eyes closed, headphones secreted in my ears under cover of a hoodie broadcasting the journey’s carefully chosen anthem.
The first time I flew to London in 1999 it was “Out of Reach” by the Get Up Kids, a song I was introduced to by my first college crush a week earlier. In 2005 I cried silently as Damien Rice sang “The Blower’s Daughter” to me while I braced myself to return to a city I had fled after being dumped by the first man I really loved. Sarah Melson’s “Feel It Coming” brought me aloft after 10 days in Greece in 2008 that changed the direction of my entire life. The Killers’ “This is Your Life” was the last song I heard on American soil.
As I have never flown overseas with a companion of any kind, the ritual remains private. I have never found myself engaged in conversation at takeoff that would preclude my listening to music, never had a boyfriend to request we get sandwiches from somewhere else.
The ritual works for the flight from New York to London as well, though the details are different. An overseas flight from the States requires the transubstantiation of McDonalds Chicken Nuggets and French fries with sweet and sour sauce into safe passage over the Atlantic. This is the only time I ever allow McDonalds to enter my body. There is a walk through duty free, the route never changes, though it’s comprised of different shops than in London. And there is always a private concert under my hood.
But today the ritual is all off. I’ve flown the same airline for the last five years. The same terminal every time. The same sandwich from the same chain and the same chocolate bar from the same newsstand. A walk through the same stores. A seat near the same outlet where I can plug in my phone and computer. The same Dxx returning to New York after a visit to London. A seat on the same side of the plane with the same safety video.
The tickets on BA were cheaper for this trip. I’m in a different terminal. There are branches of the same sandwich shop and the same newsstand. The same duty free vendors are here, but they’re in different relative locations. They lack the context of each other, they become foreign. Dxx is visiting New York from London. In a seat he did not choose, an aisle seat on the right hand side of the plane. All of the elements are there, but they’re lesser versions of themselves. It’s all right in all the wrong ways. I’m panicking.
I can’t find a bin for the remains of my pre-flight meal. I leave it on a table in front of Starbucks and follow the sign pointing to the toilets where I close myself in a stall. The lights are too bright. The stall is too small. I take a fitness magazine from my bag and proceed to crush a valium on the abs of the cover model. I’m almost out of valium. Dean will give me some when I stop by his apartment tomorrow. I push the yellow powder around with my oyster card until it forms a fat equal sign across the model’s waist. I pull a 5£ note from by pocket and roll it up and with two quick turns of my head leave the model first with a yellow belt, and in plain blue shorts once again. My nose burns and my eyes tear. I put the lid down and sit on the toilet until the valium takes effect and the panic passes, at which time I gather my things and walk back into the terminal. My gate has been posted on the departures board.
The woman next to me sneers when I pull out my iPod during taxi. The old man behind me is apparently struggling with a bout of restless leg syndrome while concurrently having a seizure. I put up my hood and start flicking through my music library as the plane turns and the crew is instructed to take their seats.
We are picking up speed. Shortly I’ll be hundreds of miles above the Earth hurtling backwards through time, 5 hours backwards, 4 months backwards, Dxx Abroad slowly sinking behind me into the sea, what remains of Dxx rising to take my place as I pass through immigration in New York. I have no idea who occupies my skin for the hours in between.
In the 38 flights I’ve taken between New York and London in the last five years I’ve always know when I was leaving home and when I was going home.
38 flights and I’ve always arrived at the airport with no one to meet me, on either side of the ocean.
Every part of the ritual is different this time.
I stab at my iPod repeatedly with my finger. My brain whirrs through the catalogue of songs I’ve spent 31 years using to define my experience faster than the its processer can call them forward to the screen. A sideways look reveals only the deep purple of the inside of my hood. My headphones have muffled the engine sound, but they aren’t playing anything. I have no idea what I need to hear. Panic cuts through the valium. The plane stutters and the wheels leave the ground.
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