Learning to fly

Even for someone who lives out of a suitcase as much as I do, 2019 was a banner year for travel. By my rough calculations, I spent about 40 nights in hotel rooms or crashing with family on my way to one shenanigan or another. I flew at least three times — possibly four? I’ll figure it out when I do my taxes, and won’t that be fun?

I had tableside guacamole in San Antonio and barbecue in Kansas City and high tea in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania. I sold books in Kentucky and Missouri, presented research in Illinois and Oklahoma, climbed Monks Mound and was held over in at least three airports.

I love to travel, but I also love to come home. My husband and my son always welcome me back with hugs, which may or may not be related to the foodstuffs I bring back, or that my husband only knows how to cook chili and spaghetti. I’ve often said that if I stay away too long, they’ll both get scurvy.

But there was a single moment that stuck out in this year’s travel, and I find it occupying my mind as we enter 2020, a year that seems like it should be on the opening crawler of some poorly-lit sci-fi noir directed by Ridley Scott and full of incomprehensible monologues.

It happened on the flight back from San Antonio, where I had just finished a five-day journalism conference and eaten my weight in Tex-Mex.

It had already been a trying flight, as the airline insisted on reseating me because I use a seatbelt extender. Apparently you can’t use an extender in the exit row. That probably makes…