California Dreamin’ Day 1 – Part Two – “They got a lot of funky- lookin’ people in this world.” – Whoopi Goldberg

It has been some time since I have traveled. And I forgot how much fun it is to people watch. Atlanta International has got to be the Mecca of people watching. Then again, I’m not a world traveler, so, jury’s out.

The concourses are shaped like the inside of a DNA strand as far as I’m concerned, but their shuttle trains are entertaining. The pre-recorded voiceover explaining the terminal at which you’re arriving is a female fond of phonics: “Now arriving, Terminal B. Terminal B, as in Bravo.” “Now arriving, Terminal C. Terminal C, as in Charlie.” Personally, I would’ve chosen something like C, as in cat, because “Ch” is a dipthong, but I now understand the military references.
Arriving at “D as in Delta” I narrowed the gates down to two: mine, and the one across from it, which contained a “Smoker’s Oasis.” Generally, a true smoker’s oasis is a contained ashtry with a funnel chute to dispense of cigarette butts. This oasis was a little different: it served as a quarantine chamber for those addicted to nicotine. As an addict, it beckoned, despite the shroud of blue smoke encircling its glass-encased boundaries. As the door automatically scooped me into its realm, I was smitten by the kaleidoscope of individuals spinning in and out between swirls of smoke and watched the morning sunshine playfully dancing in pockets of actual oxygen.
Planting myself next to a particularly weary-looking woman in what appeared to be a housecoat and Dr. Scholls, I lit up and relaxed: here is where I could get a sense of exactly who my fellow travelers were today: A biker dude in full leather regalia, a bohemian with an elaborate up-do of dreadlocks, a conservative with a briefcase frantically texting on his blackberry, an elderly woman with a four pronged industrial cane hanging on to dear life, an effeminate young African American male in bedazzled jeans, an average joe in plaid and jeans, a young college girl with a backpack and blatant disregard for anyone’s personal space (and whom apparently must be deaf in one ear as she chatted loudly about some concert she had just seen with her BFF…OMG!)…and me. I was in people-watching HEAVEN.
Boarding the flight for leg two of the trip (after a decent Steak and BLT sandwich from one of the concessionaires), I prepped myself for a more accurate projection of my fellow travelers; these were the folks who were actually GOING to California along with me.
On check-in, I was stopped and issued a new seat; only a slight concern, as I knew my former seat was at the window, and this one was now on the aisle. I prefer the aisle, actually, but still, had thought that Jen had booked my 2nd leg on the window, so I could enjoy the panorama as I embarked west, and moreover, as I landed. It became moot anyway, as this flight was far-less booked, and I found myself with all three seats to myself. Aaaaaah.
This was the longer leg: 4 hours and 38 minutes…not awful, but still – lengthy. As I panned the cabin, I was pleased to see a young family, a hip gay couple, a few varying nationalities, and a general mix of young and old. And then I heard it. Behind me. That familiar squeal combined with screech of a baby. I turned to view a family of West Indian descent across the aisle, clamoring for a pacifier or SOMETHING to get the job done. This was going to be a long one. Shades of Paul Lynde once again. I rolled my eyes to heaven, wondering what I’d done to be in such purgatory. It only got worse when each of the parents, at varying times, tried to sing the child to sleep…loudly, and with Indian lullabies, which are frankly, not very melodic.
My oh-so-satiating meal of “peanuts or cookies” was enhanced by a bag of M&Ms and a cola. I observed the Atlanta inlets give way to Texan plains, fluffy clouds and southwestern deserts. In between fits of restless snoozing and more disturbing Indian lullabies, I sought solace in catalog shopping and Men’s Health magazines.
Without the comfort of my cel phone, I knew not what time it was, nor how much had passed…the in-flight movie trumped the video of the flight tracker, and I was not particularly interested in the choice of “Bonneville.” And then I looked out the window: I saw the tail end of the Rocky Mountains; I was now in the final stretch.
From 35,000 feet up, the Rockies are works of art in and of themselves. The good Lord did a fine job of landscaping when they were created. The swirls of red clay and desert, streams and cerulean blue bodies of water are all interwoven into a canvas that should be cared for a by a museum curator. I could tell from the turbulence that their majesty, coupled with the pacific wind currents, were leading me to my destination: John Wayne airport, Santa Ana, Orange County, California.
When I bid farewell to my mother, she noted that John Wayne resembled my father (or vice versa)…she said, “Dad must be watching over you.” That was of additional comfort on this, the first ever of my cross country flights.
After a slightly bumpy landing (literally), I texted Jen, who was waiting in baggage claim. The West Indian family behind me held a swaddled (and silent) babe. I disembarked and followed my path to meet her. Halfway down the escalator I saw her, grinning like a Cheshire cat; I returned the smile and waved. With a big hug and a tear in my eye, I said, “I’m here!” and she, returning my embrace, welcomed me to California…my new home.