London to Washington

Flight BA 293 – London to Washington

We are chasing the sunset. Ever since we left the British Isles the horizon has been tinted anything from liquid gold to burning embers’ orange with the sun hidden behind the massive engine. A sea of clouds beneath, ever moving, moulding into shapes and patterns, like an ever-changing carpet of thick, fluffy wool, at times tumultuous and roaring, at others calm and like a field of flocking sheep.

I’ve left St.Andrews, yet hardly noticed.
The leaving in itself was so distracting,
and – deprived of sleep – I hardly took it in
as one would do if nimble.
But now, sailing above the clouds, I notice
The absence of restraints on my perceptions,
no box to hold my mind and thoughts.
The freedom lent by total anonymity.
Privacy! – for once.

Although amidst a hundred people,
crammed together in a loathsome place,
I feel at ease and balanced in myself.

And finally there’s time to think and more importantly:
space to do so in and distance from the world.
Noone’s appearance binds me to a certain subject,
Noone will interrupt me, talk to me. Nothing will box my mind.
How badly have I craved this distance and this space!

We almost failed. In our pursuit of the sunset. It’s dark outside. Only barely can I make out the shape of the large wing – a near-black silhouette against the dark blue of the sky behind it. Only if I press my forehead against the cold perspex window can I see on the far right a faint, burning red piece of horizon, cut to the shape of a triangle by wing and engine. “Would you like any tea or coffee?”
Tea, please. Thank you. – More food, milk & sugar, all packaged and wrapped at least twice. ‘All Day Deli’ – hmm, yummy! I turn my hungry gaze outside again and wow! – there’s lights beneath, piercing the pitch dark – a thousand and a thousand more, clustered and scattered, like distant galaxies of stars. One can clearly make out the shore line. We’ve reached North America. Land of the free, home of the brave. The plane turns and we follow the coast line southwards. DC can’t be far now.

There are lights almost everywhere, hardly a patch unlit or uninhabited. And those that are, have snow on them and reflect a dull grey light from its surroundings. It seems like the earth has nearly none of it to itself. There’s Long Island and the Hudson river, wending its way like a black snake through a sea of lights – New York! – the metropolis of all metropoli, the symbol of ‘the West’, of America, of wealth and prosperity.
The street-grids of Manhattan and Brooklyn appear as orderly shelved lights in a warehouse.
As we descend past Philadelphia towards Washington, highways and cars moving on them, suburbs, rows of houses and shopping malls become clearly distinguishable. A specific and somewhat typical feature of American infrastructure passes by again and again, seemingly with increasing fequency: the carpark. Always well-lit, mostly empty - a piece of tarmac desert. Welcome!