The 8th of July is the day I flew to California alone. The ticket, a gift from my parents for my 17th birthday, felt stiff in my fingers when we said goodbye. It was turmoil to leave because I knew I would not return to the same home, the same family. My parents insisted that it was really a lucky thing to be able to “get away.” I wore a cheery, new, sunny yellow, polyester, one-piece jumpsuit that zipped up the front as I carried my bag with pens and my French composition notebook, mon journal.
In the seat beside me on the quick 727 to Chicago was a 23 year old college grad named Todd, on his way to a job interview. He was mature, calmly nervous, and confident. He smiled and told me I was lucky to still have my college years ahead to enjoy before going out into the work world/becoming a professional. He had nice hair, teeth, attitude. I wrote in my journal. Nous sommes a l’air, le bon type et moi.
I spent maybe two hours in O’Hare, writing about being alone in the middle of the country, trés loin de l’est et de l’ouest. The people moved at different paces, some choosing not to stand still on the escalator, in too much of a hurry for the rest of us. Most were alone, but once in a while, emotional couples, joyful or weepy, skipped or dragged by. The little kids were comical as they seemed so wide-eyed. I tried not to appear as unworldly as they. I didn’t want to look like I had never done this before. I wrote Je m’occupe.
The flight to Los Angeles was longer. There was a lot of room to walk around, and many seats were empty. After the big screen appeared out of the ceiling, we watched a movie with James Brolin, the handsome guy on Marcus Welby, MD. Some people went to sleep, but I didn’t want to miss anything. The peanuts were sweet, and I hoped they didn’t crunch too loud for the people seated near me.
The restrooms were like phone booths, and I was glad my jumpsuit unzipped easily and fell to the floor. I sat there on the waxy paper urinating, half-naked, at 37,000 feet, envisioning the plane suddenly falling apart and me flying almost naked, exposed, through the sky. I peed faster and jerked my jumpsuit on as quickly as possible, returning to my seat and my Seventeen magazine.
I talked with an airline stewardess about how to become one. She filled me in and advised me to keep studying French because it would really help me if I worked overseas. She fulfilled my expectations of a United Airlines stewardess, friendly and cute in her orange uniform with matching bucket cap. What a life I imagined—always departing to, arriving at new places and people. Where would one call “home”?
When we passed over the Grand Canyon, it looked so reduced, like the mountains had shrunk, like the vast emptiness was really nothing, the feared heights were but the movement of a fingertip. I realized that in the air I was farther away from Pennsylvania than I would be if I were on land. I imagined a hypotenuse to where I was in the sky. I was freer than ever, not knowing what to expect upon landing in any state. I was glad to write in French because it was an escape, too. No one but my teacher would ever read or understand it. It was here in the sky that I gave myself permission to invent words when I didn’t know the correct translation for things like hypotenuse, maybe hypotènus? I didn’t know how anyone could sleep when there was always something to ponder.
Exiting the tunnel from the plane, I heard Grandpa, “JE-SUS CHRIST, Lyndi, it’s good to see you!” There he was in his flat-top, his plaid shorts with his straight-hemmed shirt hanging out, the way California men wear, his sandals. He shook me and yelled again, “God, I can’t believe you’re here.” I guess he was glad because he kept laughing. (I was in another land that July because everyone hugged everyone all the time, everywhere we went. It didn’t matter whether we had already hugged just a while ago. C’est Californie!)
I had gone west, taking my notebook with me, and on the frontier, I found that my home, chez moi, could be found in words, hugs, and escapes. I’d heard that the taking off and landing were the most dangerous parts, but they were quick; without them, I couldn’t get anywhere, and I couldn’t find home.
