The group, a photo taken by danielle in the airpot of her sunhat & shoes, the four of us before the trip.
I am in the Chicago airport. I have boarded my plane and already strange languages fill the cabin, their chatter dances in one ear and right out the other. Not one word is sticking. Part of me regrets not being fluent in another language, but another part of me knows that it is illogical for me to know every language being spoken on this plane.
I see a french family, one of many as this flight is for Paris. The little boy has big brown eyes and beautiful long lashes. The parents look young, but weary. I said hello to the girl next to me, whom I do not know. She looks younger than me, maybe 15. She did not respond immediately to my greeting and I wonder if she speaks English. I feel ignorant for assuming she must.
I am separated from my group; they are all in the back of the plane. I am grateful that this will give me the chance to sleep, but in all of the excitement I am worried that I will miss out on whatever is going on back there. Part of me is glad to have a break from the group; I know it is something that won't happen often during the trip.
There is a young baby crying near me and two older Americans are complaining. I smile at this. As I look out the window I am taken aback when I remember I am still in America. I'm in Chicago, a city I've been to dozens of times. It has never felt like this. The diversity, the foreign speech, the anxiety and adrenalin coursing through my veins.
The plane has now taken off. I am near the window, but over a wing, so it is hard to see anything. I am sleepy. I am just about ready to grab some dramamine and my ipod and conk out for awhile. It is only 5:40 PM.
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