It’s 7am and I’m passing through the lines at Ninoy Aquino International Airport. NAIA. My flight is 8am. I’m drunk.
It’s 9 o’clock, I’m in 60F, still drunk. Last time I ate, maybe, probably, last night. My stomach is growling acidic, drunken hunger.
24 hours of travel to sit and think; about failed relationships; about uncertainty. About everything and nothing.
By the time the flight attendant comes around with the food cart, I’m feeling more of a hangover than anything else. I get eggs and sausage because it sounds like the other option she says, only barely above the sound of the air vents and wind rushing along the body of the jet—the pressure working against my eardrums—is “corn and rice”.
Pork, she said. “Pork,” because I don’t really look Filipino, and not “tocino”. I would’ve understood tocino. I have eggs and sausage.
When she passes by again, asking everyone “coffee or tea?”, I ask her for water and another coffee. She hands me a glass of water. She turns. She walks down the aisle with her cart.
First world problems. And, yes, this is a joke.
I’m traveling Manila to Tokyo. Tokyo to Detroit. Detroit to Grand Rapids.
I’m traveling back.
Back to friends, I’m flying. Back to the familiarity of the Midwestern sensibility. Back home.
- - -
We fly above the China Sea, all of us.
We are pacified. Staring into touch-screen headrests. Eyes closed, slumped sideways. Leaning forward. Reclined, three inches back.
The old woman to my right prayed as we taxied the runway. She leans to the left when she sleeps. She has 1960’s style. She is tiny, but she takes up space. She caries herself with an air of pretentiousness. This is very Filipino.
- - -
I am sitting at the gate in Narita, in Tokyo. A recording of a women’s voices, 3 languages: English, Japanese, Chinese. Flight information. Weather. They speak like robots.
A little boy wants ice cream. He really wants ice cream. I know this because, what started as a simple question, has now become a repetitious yell, stomping, and a shaking of the chairs where I was quietly reading.
The father does nothing. This is very Filipino.
I am sitting here in the airport. Everyone goes everywhere. Nothing is going on.
- - -
I watch movies. I eat the world’s tiniest bag of peanuts. I eat a larger bag of tiny pretzels.
Coffee. Water. Green tea.
The more Americans on a plane, the worse the food becomes. We call that a correlation.
Philippines to Japan, there are ube muffins. There is flan.
Tokyo to Detroit, there is more food, but there is no flavor.
We are flying. It is night and day. We are traveling.
We head back in time.
- - -
I am in Detroit. The accent is Heartland, all the way.
The people behind me talk about their travels abroad. They are energetic and cooing about their international travel. They talk about their cruise ship experience as though they traveled in support of aiding a relief effort. They are excited about a handmade statue bought at some port where they went ashore.
I am in the Midwest. People do nothing about their children.
Everyone is humpty dumpty. Everyone walks bewildered. They move slow and they make stops. Too many stops. They stare at signs indecisively. They look at one another for answers. This is very much America.
- - -
I know these people. We talk. We laugh.
I am with friends. Now, I am home.
It’s 9 o’clock, I’m in 60F, still drunk. Last time I ate, maybe, probably, last night. My stomach is growling acidic, drunken hunger.
24 hours of travel to sit and think; about failed relationships; about uncertainty. About everything and nothing.
By the time the flight attendant comes around with the food cart, I’m feeling more of a hangover than anything else. I get eggs and sausage because it sounds like the other option she says, only barely above the sound of the air vents and wind rushing along the body of the jet—the pressure working against my eardrums—is “corn and rice”.
Pork, she said. “Pork,” because I don’t really look Filipino, and not “tocino”. I would’ve understood tocino. I have eggs and sausage.
When she passes by again, asking everyone “coffee or tea?”, I ask her for water and another coffee. She hands me a glass of water. She turns. She walks down the aisle with her cart.
First world problems. And, yes, this is a joke.
I’m traveling Manila to Tokyo. Tokyo to Detroit. Detroit to Grand Rapids.
I’m traveling back.
Back to friends, I’m flying. Back to the familiarity of the Midwestern sensibility. Back home.
- - -
We fly above the China Sea, all of us.
We are pacified. Staring into touch-screen headrests. Eyes closed, slumped sideways. Leaning forward. Reclined, three inches back.
The old woman to my right prayed as we taxied the runway. She leans to the left when she sleeps. She has 1960’s style. She is tiny, but she takes up space. She caries herself with an air of pretentiousness. This is very Filipino.
- - -
I am sitting at the gate in Narita, in Tokyo. A recording of a women’s voices, 3 languages: English, Japanese, Chinese. Flight information. Weather. They speak like robots.
A little boy wants ice cream. He really wants ice cream. I know this because, what started as a simple question, has now become a repetitious yell, stomping, and a shaking of the chairs where I was quietly reading.
The father does nothing. This is very Filipino.
I am sitting here in the airport. Everyone goes everywhere. Nothing is going on.
- - -
I watch movies. I eat the world’s tiniest bag of peanuts. I eat a larger bag of tiny pretzels.
Coffee. Water. Green tea.
The more Americans on a plane, the worse the food becomes. We call that a correlation.
Philippines to Japan, there are ube muffins. There is flan.
Tokyo to Detroit, there is more food, but there is no flavor.
We are flying. It is night and day. We are traveling.
We head back in time.
- - -
I am in Detroit. The accent is Heartland, all the way.
The people behind me talk about their travels abroad. They are energetic and cooing about their international travel. They talk about their cruise ship experience as though they traveled in support of aiding a relief effort. They are excited about a handmade statue bought at some port where they went ashore.
I am in the Midwest. People do nothing about their children.
Everyone is humpty dumpty. Everyone walks bewildered. They move slow and they make stops. Too many stops. They stare at signs indecisively. They look at one another for answers. This is very much America.
- - -
I know these people. We talk. We laugh.
I am with friends. Now, I am home.
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