[Author’s Note: this Blog Post was heavily changed and repurposed to function as a chapter in the TMR Novel. This is the Revised & Refined version. Toggle under the title to read the Original & Unedited form.]

At the airport, like I always am.
My family doesn’t travel much. I was raised with a sort of uneasy fascination with airports. I was told stories about how hard traveling is, how busy the airport is, they’re going to lose your bag, the jet lag is going to make you tired for a week after. So the first time I flew off to Arizona for college, it was a Big Deal. A huge rite of passage into independence. I was doing something my family never does. And I was only flying a few states away.
Fast forward a few years later, and I fly almost every month. I’ve lived partially in London, New York, and LA over the last few years. This was the product of my relationship with Codename: Didi. A supremely cosmopolitan woman. I’ve tried to keep it up on my own now that it’s over. Mom & Dad would hear my flight schedule (and even more so hers, back then) and comment on how taxing it must be. But why? I think people who don’t like flying don’t like it because they haven’t had enough practice. I was that way. The jet lag especially would kill me.

The jet lag from my first international flight inspired that bout of existential reckoning, and now the jet lag of an international relationship inspired this blog. I pushed Doing Music to the side for a girl, but I lost her, and now I’m struggling to get back on track. You follow someone around the world for long enough, it’s gonna take a second to adjust. But no time for that— keep on Jetsetting.
LAX to JFK, JFK to LAX, LAX to SEA, SEA to LAX, LAX to JFK again. That’s this month of my life.

— Something I’ll talk more about later —
I think I want to move to New York.

I keep making excuses to fly to New York, and it’s time to read between the lines. I’m at Sea-Tac Airport, flying back to LA from Mom & Dad’s house, and I’m dreading it. I think I’ll feel better if I move to New York. Sound familiar? Some place, somewhere else.
One time, a very kind but presumptuous woman tapped me on the shoulder near the Flatiron Building and told me that, “Excuse me, but did you know you’re walking too slow?”
I Appreciate It, I said, and I did. How else would I have known? I hit Mach 2 after that.
Traveling used to be such a Big Deal, but now I have TSA PreCheck+CLEAR, so I can show up with 15 minutes to spare, and I put an AirTag in the lining of my rolling bag so I don’t lose it. I used to walk too slow for the city, but now I can keep up. Things can Change, I think. The question is— How do you know if Change is for the better? Can you decide how you Change? Can you Change back if you’re not happy with how you ended up?
Growing up, all I ever wanted to do was go to LA. But now that I’ve seen the world, I fear LA has lost its Romance. Traveling used to be such a Big Deal, but now that I’ve gotten used to it, I’ve come to think of it as a sort of commute between different chapters of my life. It’s funny, because last time I had a proper job, the commute was the worst part. Now life has become commuting to and from LA. This year, I can think of January as Kent, February as Paris, March as New York, April as Indio, May as Wales, June as Vegas, July as North Carolina, August as Kent, September as San Diego, October as New York, November as Kent, December as New York… and the times between as LA.
It makes me sad to think about leaving. No, I’ll give it one more chance. Let’s make it harder for me to leave.

— Coming soon, probably —
The LA Bucket List™.

Oops, about to miss my flight. Gotta jet
—mbk

At the airport, like I always am. My family doesn’t travel much. I was raised with a sort of uneasy fascination with airports. I was told stories about how hard traveling is, how busy the airport is, they’re going to lose your bag, the flight is going to make you tired for a week after. So the first time I flew off to Arizona for college, it was a BIG deal. A huge rite of passage into independence. I was doing something my family never does. And I was only flying a few states away.

Fast forward a few years later and I fly almost every month. I’ve lived partially in London, New York and LA over the last few years. This was the product of my previous relationship with a supremely cosmopolitan woman, but it’s something I’ve tried to maintain even after.

My parents would hear my flight schedule (or especially hers) and comment on how taxing it must be. But why? I think people who don’t like flying don’t like it because they’re not good at it. I was that way. When I was going back and forth between WA and AZ during undergrad, I had this giant duffel bag I would completely overstuff and have to pay the oversized bag fee for.

***A clarification, for emphasis***
Yes, a duffel bag with no wheels. I had to drag it around. It looked like there was a corpse in there.

But who WOULDN’T need every single pair of underwear they own? What if I shat myself twice a day, every day of the vacation? But once the duffel was safely checked, I would try to sleep on the plane by resting my head on the tray table in front of me. Of course, I couldn’t, even though I ALSO wore near-pajamas to the airport so I’d fall asleep easier.

Now I’m sitting here, at the bar with a $13 beer and plenty of time to kill, with my hardshell rolling back with an AirTag in the lining and a neck pillow I can attach to the headrest for supreme support. I have my noise cancelling headphones on to drown out the sounds of people rushing to their gates, I’ve downloaded 15 episodes of How I Met Your Mother (the flight’s not even three hours, but who WOULDN’T need to have extra downloaded, just in case?), and best of all I am fitted the fuck out. That’s right, no pajamas anymore. The single best tip for a more pleasurable flight is actually to look your best. I’m mewing the whole way from Clear + Pre-Check to the gate B3. Oh yeah, I’m on my third free trial of Clear. They have yet to call me out on it. With that lethal combo, I’m through security in the same amount of minutes as ounces of 3-1-1 liquid they let you carry on.

LAX to JFK, JFK to LAX, LAX to SEA, SEA to LAX, LAX to JFK again. That’s this month of my life.

***Something I’ll talk more about later***
Have I mentioned that I’m moving to New York?

I wrote a line, once, in a previous life. “Something about airports makes me cry.” Yeah, that’s it. That’s the line. Haha. I think I was trying to evoke the Motion City Soundtrack line about hating the ocean, theme parks and airplanes. But it’s true. I’m not much of a people watcher, really (I’m far too myopic) but I like being AROUND people moving quickly and with purpose. I think that’s what I like so much about New York. Those fuckers walk at a BREAKNECK speed. They’re gliding. A very kind but presumptuous woman tapped me on the shoulder in Flatiron and told me that, excuse me but did you know you’re walking too slow? I appreciate it, I did. How else would I have known? I hit Mach 2 after that.

I still have a bit of a fixation on airports but it’s turned into more of a romantic feeling. It’s a meditation now. I like finding new and inventive ways to make it even more of a breeze. I like to think of it as a sort of commute. It’s funny, because last time I had a proper job, the commute was the worst part. And it’s even funnier because in LA if the ETA is over 30 minutes, I’m probably not going. I’m going on 5 years of job sobriety and there are some aspects of a 9-5 that still creep their way into my life.

I suppose the routine of the airport is a good way to punctuate my months, give me something to look forward to. Otherwise, what’s really the difference between May and June? July and December, even? Especially in LA where it’s Groundhog Day. But now, I can think of January as Washington, August as North Carolina, December as New York… And the times between as LA. It makes me sad to think about leaving, but it’s less home as it is home base. But I’m determined to make it harder for me to leave.

***Coming soon***
The LA bucket list.

Oops, about to miss my flight. Til next time -mbk