The Longest Sunday

9:23 Traveling Blues

The Longest Sunday

My Sunday, September 9th, 2007 lasted exactly 45 hours. Twice I ate breakfast, lunch, and dinner, read a current Sunday newspaper, saw a sunrise, and caught a 10 pm flight. But only once did I sleep. Crossing the dateline never gets old.

I am glad to be back in the States. The lack of marshal law and threat of a military crack down really eases the daily tension, although the US newspapers are comparatively boring. The Bill of Rights is a powerful document, often taken for granted by our good citizens. I wish to celebrate my return to this great land by exercising my freedom of speech, without fear of reprisal or being hauled away to the military barracks. Commodore Frank Bainimarama is a giant tool and his military junta is a joke, excellent only at personifying ignorance, incompetence, and sheer stupidity. I pity the people of Fiji as much as a laugh at the interim government’s childish charade of politics, or even their attempt at speaking in complete sentences without drooling. I would go on with my criticism, but shooting fish in a barrel does get old… eventually.

Sorry. I have had to get that out of my system for the past three months. I feel a lot better.

I had a great summer though. Personally, just experiencing the contrast between Fiji and Vanuatu was a summer in itself. I enjoyed the food and the colorful contribution of the Indian influence. I loved the beaches, and sunsets. I learned the ukulele and even enjoyed AFN. Tokyo was amazing. My internship was a success. Overall it was a grand summer. And then came LAX. Again.

LAX is purgatory incarnate. Its mission on earth is to break the will of even the most patient Zen master traveler, reducing him to a sobbing wreck incapable of using the toilet unassisted. The most effective weapon at its disposal: the belief that landing on the runway after a 10 hour flight means that you have arrived at your destination. The plane lands, and sits. Inches its way to “gate” 202, actually a concrete outpost two miles away from the terminal. The passengers load the cattle buses, and wait. And then comes the gauntlet of immigration, baggage claim, and customs. Ellis Island, except for empty revolving baggage carousels with hordes of hollow eyes matching the speed of the creaking circulating belt.

The blow below the belt is the following flight connection mayhem. Wow to the poor bastard who wishes to leave LAX’s fatal shores. I chose Delta, the wrong choice if anyone is interested. I finally broke down yelling at an outsourced call center attendant concerning my airmiles. She had it coming. Delta had it coming.

But I am alive. My girlfriend surprised me and picked me up at the airport. It made the pain and suffering of airplane food, a sunburn, LAX and Delta worth it. It is good to be home, and I can’t wait for this Sunday.