On flying
How pleasantness erases amazement
Last week, my husband, two sons, and I rode two planes to come to Tokyo to see my father and my husband’s parents.
The boys are 5 and 3 years old, which means we eat (almost) the same foods, and can sit for hours in an airplane with our respective headphones, consumed by our video choices like four zombies in a row. I won’t jinx myself by saying that this parenting thing has gotten easier, because there are certainly moments that prove how little I know about raising humans—but I do admit that this trip was the first time I regained a little of who I used to be before becoming a parent.
According to my parents, I had ridden airplanes since I was a baby, and my first passport was filled with stamps, between Tokyo and California where my father worked over multiple medical fellowships. When I left Tokyo at 18 to attend college in New York, I flew back home every summer and winter. Gradually, I developed more efficient methods of packing, figured out the best moisturizers to pack, and concluded that I’m not fit to read or write during transit. Too many interruptions, too cramped, too ambitious. I would save every “free” moment on watching movies as though I were catching up on homework.
Flying in airplanes as a child, I remember the sheer boredom of it all, the disgusting sausages they served for breakfast, the little TV in the aisle showing a rotation of movies you had no control over. The anxiety of waiting for the restroom, the shock of the flushing sound, the way the soap lingered in the sink. I think my kids still experience a version of this, but they don’t seem bored. When they go back to their seats, they have a seemingly infinite list of Paw Patrol episodes to choose from, and a bag of Trader Joe’s snacks to keep them satisfied, while I say “No thank you” to the airline’s depressing offerings.
It’s funny to me how ordinary it seems that we can fly to go somewhere. When the boys and I are at a park and see an airplane, we can look up at them in amazement, comparing them to birds or superheroes. Once we’re in the busy airport environment and shepherded inside the plane, it’s like we’re actively trying to forget the fact that we’re flying.
I still want to retain all the pleasantness of flying; I don’t need to yawp and express my repressed amazement. I fantasize about the day when there will be direct flights between Nashville and Tokyo so that I never have to go through a layover again. I just wonder what the Wright Brothers would think if they saw what the experience of flying has turned into. In Miyazaki’s Porco Rosso, pilots are heroes (or pirates), and airplanes signal adventure, romance, and dreams. Now, the adventure, romance, and dreams come from the screens in front of our seats.
The last few days, my 5-year-old son and I have commuted by buses and trains to get from my in-law’s house to his day camp. On the first day, he was mesmerized by all the sights and sounds. By the second day, he started to ask, “Are we there yet?”
How quickly he got used to it all! How quickly he wants to do away with the boredom and the routine. How lucky he has it, to live in a world where there are always possibilities beyond just sitting and waiting.
Some professional news: As of June 1, I am now the Director of Education at The Porch! I will be overseeing a three-season program of writing classes for adults and youths, offered in-person in Nashville as well as virtually via Zoom. You can read more about me and the rest of the team here. Feeling grateful and excited.
Congratulations on your new position!