Up in the air

I'm writing this from the cramped 26A seat on a BMI flight from London to Amman (it'll get pasted from the Word document later; I'm trying to be proactive, which is why I'm on the British Midlands flight in the first place). Pros of 26A: window, view of London fading away. Cons of 26A: near tail, very bumpy, hence vaguely motion sickness and fear inducing. I'm flying somewhere over western Turkey, and everything in my life is up in the air. Turbulent, if you will. 

As of this morning I'm "formally" moved out of London. However, since I'm not yet really moved in anywhere else, that's only half true. Last night I slept on a sleeping bag on the floor, and this morning I surrendered the keys to my flatmate. Who needs an address when the world is your oyster? (Me, me, me!!!) My flatmates left the house with me and each helped carry a suitcase down the sidewalk, onto the bus, off the bus, down the stairs to the tube, onto the train, and I hugged them goodbye in between the closing doors of the Picadilly line. At Heathrow airport I alternately pushed, heaved, and gingerly pulled everything  off of the tube alone. My arms are sore but I'm proud of the feat. Who needs a gym when you don't have money for a taxi? (Me, me, me!!!) I'm also impressed that I didn't pay a pence in overweight luggage fees, even though it required nonchalantly smiling whilst standing in front of the check-in counter while the straps of my hand luggage, in which I had placed all of my heaviest books, sliced into the skin over my collarbone. I assured my friend in Amman that I was going to try mightily to be brave around him about my uncertain future, and that I would consolidate my baggage in both the literal and metaphorical sense. 

I hate saying goodbye to people (though I like goodbye parties, because I like any excuse to throw a party). Leaving DC over a year ago was heartrending enough; leaving London is sad because I've added more people onto the long list of people I miss. Today was a beautiful fall day, and as the plane took off and flew over London I could recognize many places that meant something to me. From 26A I noticed, "Oh, that's the airport road with the hotel where I had dinner with Karina during her half day layover, there are the Kew gardens! In the winter Joelle and I had tea there, and scones with clotted cream. We took a photo in front of the red Japanese pagoda, the pagoda is what you can see best from the air," and "Oh, that's the Public Records Office, the home of the British National Archives, it looks like a soviet office building, sprawling cement." I thought to myself, "That's the first place I spent time in London, I miss researching the Assyrians, reading old musty documents, the British Foreign Office was so organized, remarkable, it was so cold when I was staying at the archivist's house on that road there, I bought a scarf with orange and pink stripes at the Marks and Spencer's in that giant mall...there...I won't miss Marks and Spencer's...what a ridiculously overpriced store." As the plane flew closer to the center of the city the places I noticed and the memories associated with them grew denser, more intense, and more difficult to separate, and I was awash in a streamofconsciousness nostalgia for my year in London. "There's the London eye! Well, of course it's easy to spot. I went there with every visitor who came to town. The Thames. Such a long, important river. I've heard it's shallow, only three feet deep. One could wade across if it weren't for the undercurrents. I wonder what it was like three hundred years ago. Busier? Dirtier. Arsenal stadium! The Emirates stadium. Arsenal, sponsored by Emirates. Why? And the New Academic Building at LSE donated by Sheik Zayed and the PR firms of Abu Dhabi. I should go back to Dubai. The Dubai metro is running now, 'hamdullilah. There's Finsbury Park! My house, oops, not my house anymore, must be somewhere...right...there...aw, there's Regent's Park. Regent's Park is nicer than Finsbury Park. I hate to admit it, but it's true. I had a daylong picnic there with Emily and Olivia, and we ate the most delicious brie cheese. Those are the Southwestern railway trains snaking towards Brighton." I remembered in a jumble of thoughts the first trip I took out of London, this time last year, to Brighton beach. "Another beautiful fall day. I didn't have a mobile phone yet. How did I manage to find Jolie in Victoria station? Jolie and I sitting on the beach. Drinking beer and eating chips. Contrails in the sky, from planes headed towards America. Vegetarian Indian restaurant. Hippies and Caribbean Britons. I bought a pair of red and black striped beaded earrings. I think I lost one of them recently. How did I meet Jolie anyway? Caroline! Through Caroline! How is she? Is she in Germany? We went to dinner at the Turkish restaurant, by the river, somewhere...there...we walked along the brick quay near the Globe Theater to a wine bar. Tube back to Brixton. Crept upstairs in my old house by the light of a streetlamp. That house had the greatest kitchen and a cookbook that I always meant to buy for myself but now I can't remember the name of it..."

Now the map says 601 km to destination. I'm somewhere over Konya, the sufi town. Rumi is burried there. Its the home of the Mevlevi order of Sufis, the whirling dervishes. Not all Sufis see the value in this, of meditating while going around in circles. Maybe the journey is the destination? I don't know. Like everyone I have a strong desire to feel useful in the world, but at 35,000 feet, neither here nor there in life, I just feel nervous. But maybe that's the turbulence.