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Illustration by Marley Allen-Ash
When I fly in the aisle seat, I like being free to move about without climbing over strangers. But there’s a price for this freedom: The window shade falls outside my jurisdiction. Tethered to their electronic devices, those by the window immediately lower their shades banishing daylight and the world outside. I respect that they are working. But still, I imagine them as modern-day vampires craving darkness, drawing blood from luminous screens.
When the window seat is mine, I watch as we climb into the clouds. The clouds calm and soothe, clearing the clutter from my head. I can think more clearly. And I remember that one of the things I love about travelling – airport drudgery aside – is the flying part. I wonder why more travellers don’t raise their shade to relax – so much better than mediocre wine in a plastic cup.
I was 16 on the first plane trip I can remember, more excited about the flight than my destination. I remember my glee speeding down the runway, jet engines roaring, giddy with the sheer freedom and power to soar. And the quiet, when the plane’s nose tilted upwards, and the wheels left the ground. I stared as roads and cars and houses grew smaller and disappeared. I was mesmerized by the clouds, otherworldly and more beautiful from this new vantage point.
Twelve hours later, I felt the plane slow, beginning its descent. As the Earth grew closer and larger, I stared at the sky, a blinding fluorescent blue, nothing like the sky above Montreal, my home. The bright sun was impossible to reconcile with the time on my watch – proof of leaping across multiple time zones.
Shimmering waves crashed into the coastline and an arid landscape came into view. I would soon be in Tel Aviv, the city where I was born. I had no memories of this city. I left when I was two. I didn’t know what to expect. But from my window, long before my feet touched the ground, I sensed a different world.
As my parents aged, trips to Montreal from my home in Chicago became increasingly frequent. I helped manage their care and their crises, helpless to reverse their steady decline. Wherever I was, anxiety and worry were my constant companions during those years.
On the small jets that flew that route, there were single seats by the windows on the left side of the plane. When I was lucky, I could snag one, enjoying only the company of dreamy cloud formations – the calm before the storm I was flying into.
On clearer days, I saw the St. Lawrence River appear below me – a sign that we were getting closer. That was my cue to breathe deeply, to muster some calm and hold it in reserve for my visit. I practised those breaths as primordial landmarks came into view: Mount Royal, St. Joseph Oratory’s massive dome.
Best of all: the occasional sighting of a huge orange orb – the Orange Julep – a drive-in restaurant where on steamy summer nights as a teenager, I ate French fries washed down with the OJ’s signature juleps – a happy memory that no longer came easily. To see these before we touched down was a gentle re-entry into this beautiful city that had morphed into the epicentre of my sadness from the childhood home I had loved.
There was nothing gentle about arriving in an aisle seat. Even with laptops stowed, few raised their shades. Without visual markers, I could only sense our descent, unable to guess how near or far we were from landing. When the wheels touched the ground, it felt like I had fallen out of the sky with a thud. Like a diver rising to the surface too quickly, I braced myself for the emotional bends.
That window seat was no less important on my return home. As Montreal faded into the distance, the tightness in my chest melted into deep breaths. When towns and fields visible beneath the clouds gave way to a vast expanse of blue, I knew we were crossing Lake Michigan. I was already home. I could ease back into my life before seeing the skyscrapers towering over Chicago’s shoreline. Before, much like the geese I watched landing on the pond near my house, the plane’s tail tilted downwards, its nose slowly following, until all the wheels touched the ground.
I’ll soon be flying to the tiny beach town I dream of on grey winter days. It’s a place of cool salt breezes, of tides obeying the tug of the moon. It’s where the rhythm of crashing waves has soothed my soul for more than 20 summers. I will cheerfully climb over my husband from my window seat when I need to move about. And as night changes into day, I will stare at the clouds and watch for Portugal’s familiar coastline to come into view. I will be there long before my feet touch the ground.
Yona Krum Eichenbaum lives in Glencoe, Ill.