Boston to Los Angeles

From 30,000 Feet


I spent the last minutes of freedom, before the alarms went off to wake people only feigning sleep, wondering what the hell I had been thinking. It didn’t feel real. It felt like stuff was just happening; my luggage seemed to pop out of nowhere and packed itself (actually my mom and sister packed for me while I Skype-smoked a cigarette with Hadley) and an E-2 Visa appeared in my passport. After all this waiting and all of these delays, I almost thought it would never really happen. But it did, despite how hard I fought it in the end.

Early on in this process I had told my parents that I did not want them to take me to the airport. I am not one for extended so-longs and my will to go through the security line has all but been destroyed when I looked over my shoulder to see my mom all teary eyed and my dad smiling at me.


At one point I was actually going to take a limo to the airport but it didn’t happen. Instead, I found myself trying to rush past my sobbing mother and into the car as my Dad waited idling in the dark.


By the way, when I say sobbing, I actually mean balling her eyes out as though one of her beloved cats had finally jumped into the oven. It was R-O-U-G-H. It almost pushed me past my limit, but I choked most back and was in the car and on the Mass Pike; flying to uncertainty and fear.

My father drove me and for my sake he keeps thing cool.


Now, I am not a religious guy by any means. When it comes to organized churches and afterlives I just sort of try and do my best and hope that things turn out ok. My prayers are thoughts to remember those who have gone to the great adventure before me. I rarely ask God for anything as I am not sure I am comfortable with the idea of leaving a lot of my life in the hands of something that probably has better things to do.


I prayed in the car. I begged in the car. I pleaded, as though for clemency and my life, that I wouldn’t be a line from an Alanis Morisette song. I pleaded to be panic free (being abandoned in Mexico and left to wander alone has a tendency to give you panic attacks) and that the drugs wouldn’t lead to me being dragged off the plane naked and screaming (totally ripped that off from Brandon). Hey, it can’t hurt right?


We pulled up to the terminal and soon my bags were sitting on the curb. My Dad stepped out and wished me luck. His hand patting my back was nearly the end of it all. I often think that it would be easier for me to leave if I had family issues, but I don’t. In fact, over the past several months I had stopped taking these little insignificant moments with my family for granted. I knew right then that I would miss a lot: walking my dog, playing with my cats, my sister, trying to get my mom to walk my dog and drinking brandy with my father in Manville.


Deep inside I told myself that it would all be there when I came back. I grabbed my bags and walked through the sliding doors and glanced back as the Cavalier drove off into the rising sun. My idleness was over; now was the time for living.


The airport could have gone a bit smoother. I could have looked at my itinerary and saw that I was flying United and perhaps would have been spared the 30 minute wait standing in the American line. This would have also spared me the seemingly half mile walk from terminal B to terminal C.


If I knew I had to take my belt off for security then I would have buttoned my fly.


So, I am writing this from 30,000 feet in the air, about 35 minutes from L.A. and I am happy to say I am, thus far, panic free. In fact, I almost enjoyed the flight. Four of the 6 hours were spent in a Benzo delirium in which I could not play a game of solitaire in less than 45 minutes. I came out of it right as The Middle started to play -I mean it’s no Modern Family but beggars can’t be choosers. Also, Modern Family better be around when I get back


One flight down. One monster of a flight to go.

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On Progress and Planes

At 3AM I recieved confirmation from my recruiter, Steven, that after spending another $50 to ship my Suffolk transcripts to Korea that I finally was the proud owner of a visa confirmation number.  That's one step closer to getting on the thousand ton, magical flying machine.  Tomorrow I must call the Korean consol and arrange an appointment, after which I will have a new sticker in my passport saying that I am allowed to work in the country.  Missing the point, I know, but I hope this is one bad-ass sticker.

So, one step closer to leaving everything and everyone I know for a whole year.  I began this process as a scared little Kid.  Larry, my friend from Suffolk and long-standing drinking buddy convinced me that teaching in South Korea was the thing to do.  Two weeks later he was in Cheonan, telling me about the adventure of it all, and how I had to come and do it. 

I started the process a long time ago with little hope that I would actually finish it, but here I am.

This process has taken me so much longer than I was expecting that my fears have begun to calm down a bit.  I am still scared, mind you, but I am no longer completely mortified of the prospect of spending a year abroad. 
This sounds stupid, but the part that I was (and to a certain extent still am) fearing the most was the airplane.  To say that I dislike planes would be an understatement.  Here is an example: I drove to Florida with my old roomate Hadley.  The way down was one of the funnest things I have ever done.  I had the option to fly back home but I turned it down and took a train.  That is right: I took a 27 hour train to avoid 3 hours in an airplane. 

I went to Mexico to do a workcamp once and it ended badly.  For those of you who follow the link i want you to know that the vast majority of workcamps work out fine and that this was a fluke.  To make a long story that will be told elsewhere very short: I arrived in Mexico City, took an 8 hour bus to a place called Tecpan de Galeana, spent the night watching heavily armed men drive around in trucks and fending off cockroaches while trying to conceal $1000+ worth of camera equipment.  Nobody ever picked me up.  When the sun came out I hopped the first bus that came and ended up in Acapulco.  I salvaged the week or so I was there, but there was a certain stress that was building in my mind that I didn't even notice.  After I made my way back to Mexico City and got into the plane I was so happy it was over.  I was seated next to a couple of kids on their way to Chicago, where I would be put on a plane home to Boston.  I smiled and drifted to sleep.

I woke up to what I now know to be a full blown panic attack.  I couldn't breathe but in gasps.  My arms and legs were tingling and felt as though novacaine was being pumped through my veins.  My vision was jumping as though there was a very powerful strobe light infront of my face.  And my mind.  I was sure I was dying.  I was having a heart attack.  I was accepting this but my thoughts became so irrational.  I was positive that I could feel the back of the plane beginning to fall from the sky.  I looked at the kids and wondered how much their parents would have to pay for therapy when this was over.  It passed in a few moments but came back again and again.  It took all my might not to scream and cry.  To be sure, that moment is and will remain the worst experience that I have ever had.

I passed out as soon as I hit the bench of my connecting airport and I walked onto the next airplane as though I were walking down that last grey mile to the gas chamber. 

I was happy to be home, but something was horribly wrong.  I kept having panic attacks.  I had trouble driving or being in a small room, or anywhere with quiet.  I couldn't go out to eat at a restaurant.  The only time I didn't feel on edge was at the place I worked at.  Finally the doctor gave me some pills and I googled the hell out of what was happenning to me.  Knowing what happens physiologically during a panic attack is more helpful than any medication.

In the end, I don't think a plane caused what happened; it must have been the stress I kept bottled up, but it left me with a foul taste for flying. 

That was a long way for me to say that I really do not like flying.  I don't like taking off, I don't like descending, and I certainly hate turning.  If I had my way the pilot would inform us of EVERY move he or she made. 

But I am ready for this flight, or at least I am as ready as I can be courtesy of a hefty bottle of Lorazepam.

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