at LAX

i'm at the airport again, but this time (knock on wood) the shuttle was on time, the lines didn't hold me up, and my flight is yet to be delayed. (it is, afterall, southwest.) i've got my tazo tea and am as comfortable as ever in this self-enclosed world that we call los angeles international.

i was a lucky little girl: thanks to my parents, traveling became second nature to me at a young age. i lived in airports. my brothers memorized airline schedules. my father explained the physics of flight. and my mother grinned, occasionally rolling her eyes when the boys wouldn't notice. some summers, we'd hop across the globe, running, weighed down with stuffed animals and gameboys, across dallas international or singapore chiangi. other holidays were spent in fly-infested shacks-on-tarmack: southeast asian airports whose electrical fans urged beads of sweat to run down your neck, providing just enough relief from the stifling heat. often, they would tell you they didn't think they'd seen your name on the passenger list. ten american dollars always helped them remember. european airports weren't necessarily any better. cigarette smoke used to fill the waiting chambers of heathrow. you had to meander into boots pharmacy or find your way outdoors to catch a breath of fresh air.

so, on my way home over christmas break this past year, my six-hour stay at LAX's gate 4 seemed almost pleasant in comparison to some of my childhood terminal adventures. my flight had been delayed, delayed again, and then cancelled. "bad weather over san jose," they told us. a phone call to my dad soon proved them wrong. filthy liars. grr.

they placed my name on numerous standby lists and i took my seat next to a throng of disgruntled passengers who had been foolish enough to book themselves on my flight. my chair squeaked as i sat down. damn. everytime i shifted my weight, tired eyes turned my way, obviously put out by the unoiled joints. what nerve i had to provoke such a noise! how rude.

the floridian couple to my left were furious at their bad luck. decked out in last year's worst hawaiian shirt, the pink puff-cheeked man continually threated southwest from under his straw hat. the wife, her middle as round as her husband's, chimed in with sporadic words of agreement. her eyes would glaze over for minutes at a time, and just when you thought she had calmed down, a shrieked "terrible service! terrible!" would wake you from your silly dreams.

across from them sat a patient young mother and probably the best-behaved kid i have ever seen. she was friendly and entrustd me with her boy's care- and a coke- when she ran over to grab a pizza to split from cpk. the boy clasped his hands together upon his lap. after sizing me up, he offered to show me his latest comic. "you like Superman, right?" he was oldschool. "who doesn't like Superman?" i asked. i think i won him over. (my kids better like Superman. oh, and they'll be bilingual. i hope.) ten minutes pased and his half of a pepperoni pizza arrived.

i flipped open my silver cell and called my brother, telling him to wait awhile before lugging the ghetto green minivan to OAK to pick me up.

"terrible service! terrible!"

i laughed. a boy in front of me caught me smirking at mrs. miami. i eyed his guitar. without hesitation, he opened the battered case. he pulled his beanie down further over his forehead, cocked his neck to one side, half-smiled, and asked me if i liked led zeppelin. he was from the east coast. his accent gave him away. i nodded and watched his pale fingers pluck out parts of kashmir, most of stairway, and all of the eagles' hotel california. my mind was taken from the wait. every long wait needs a guitar. in fact, i say people should carry them around for just this reason.

finally, when the goddess of doom behind the counter read our names off the standby list and issued us new tickets for the flight we were crowding, i smiled at the guitarman and got a high five from Superboy.

when we took off, the poppies that line the runways were in full bloom.

i only hope i'm so blessed today.