Monday, 02 July 2001 | Ingo's move

Somewhere in America there is a group of people, by now thoroughly dispersed, united under an umbrella of disgust for Airtran airlines. I know, because I met several of this group last night in the Atlanta airport. It didn't seem to matter where people were going or where they were coming from, everyone seemed to be flying Airtran and everyone was delayed. I heard people muttering nasty things about Airtran, I saw people laying on their backs, cursing Airtran into the air above them, I noticed long lines of people at the Airtran counter, I met people buying each other drinks and striking up conversation, killing the time produced by Airtran. "Airtran? Yeah, me too. Where're you headed?"

I wish I could say the trip there was easier, but I guess it couldn't have been…I was leading a dinosaur truck up I-95, driving Ingo's little Civic with my eyes fixed on the rearview mirror. It was slow but uneventful, until we got caught in a chaotic stream of traffic just outside of New York, spilling out of a toll booth and collecting as pool of metal on the other side. I turned around and exchanged a look of horror with Ingo, and that was the last I saw of him for the next two-and-a-half hours. While I was swerving to miss cars and potholes (and my exit), Ingo was driving under low bridges at full speed, screaming in fear, before he finally exited and meandered his way to the interstate. (His truck was 10'6", and at one point he drove, successfully, under a bridge that said 9'8".) Anyway, we got there Friday night, I was delivered to Raleigh last night, vehicles are in one piece, and I have my luggage.

Last night, just before the plane touched down at RDU, I heard the woman in front of me say, "Well there she is, beautiful Raleigh-Durham." To me, it looked like nothing more than any other town from above, just clusters of yellow and green lights that don't formulate recognizable landmarks. If I'm in the air and can see the ground, I find myself trying to figure out what it is I'm over. But without lines and words and a compass and distance scales, really, without a map drawn on top of the trees, I can't determine what it is I'm seeing, whether that curve of the coastline is the upper-half of a state or a mile-long stretch of beach. I wonder if she saw something I didn't, or if she was merely happy to be home.