We made it into the airport and through security with relative ease. By now I was a pro. And as we sat waiting at our gate, I grew anxious. I was ready to get on a plane back to the good old US of A.
It was a long flight. I slept. I read a mystery I'd taken from the shelves of the flat- (a sort of communal library, where books were left and taken at will). I listened to music. I watched Avatar and When in Rome.
And then, after the strange exhilaration of hours above the ocean, New York City came into view.
As the wheels touched the ground, I could FEEL how close I was to home. There was a tractor at the side of the runway, and I realized that I hadn't seen one of those big, yellow pieces of machinery for six weeks. It was something absolutely, absurdly... American.
We stepped into the airport, and it felt like America. It smelled like America. It sounded like America.
If I tried to explain how America feels, or smells, or sounds... I couldn't do it. There is something... inexplicable. Something in the air. Something that makes you feel at home.
I was so excited I nearly kissed the ground. The security gaurds laughed at my jumping up and down, my grin from ear to ear, my raving about how much I loved America.But during that short transfer from one plane to the next, I had gulped down American air, and it was intoxicating.
The flight from NY to SLC seemed longer still... infuriatingly so. I couldn't wait. I couldn't sit still. (Which is difficult when the red light in the shape of a seat belt above your head continually reminds you to stay where you are).