Yesterday, as I sat on a plane taxi-ing away from Heathrow, I realized something. I hate take offs. I hate leaving. I am so overcome when I can look out my window and see my former home shrinking as I rapidly fly away. The only exception I've ever had to this rule was my 36-hour-12th-Night-Extravaganza in September, and that was only because I was so excited to be going and knew I'd be back in Ithaca soon. My heart ripped right out again when I left San Francisco. I do, however, love landings. Landing is the best feeling in the whole world. It may even be more excited than seeing people at the airport. It's just so euphoric, knowing that it's all right there and watching yourself get closer and closer to home. Yesterday, I nearly peed myself when I saw a baseball field. It's the little things, really.
I made it back to the 'bury in one piece. I was extremely jet-lagged and slightly delusional and really hilarious to the rest of my family. In one sense, London felt like this really long, really bizarre, really amazing dream. On the other hand, it felt like I could go outside, walk for a little while and hop on the tube to go back home to my flat. I'm feeling juxaposed and wierd. I think I'll be able to reflect more when I'm less jetlagged.
I now commense the final leg of my Sherry Party pilgrammage. One layover at LaGuardia stands between me and home. My body's starting to shut down, but I will persever!
Sherry Party '09, here I come!
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