Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about a trip I took with my sister a couple years ago. I visited her at her flat in Vienna, and then we traveled together to Rome and back to Vienna. It’s taken a while to process the trip, and it’s only now becoming a monumental and formative part of my memory. I suppose I needed time to sift and dull the memories of travel stresses and weary fighting (have you ever taken a long trip with your sister?!). I’m now left with amazing memories of ancient streets and ruins and delicious bruschetta and real cappuccinos and navigating a foreign city by myself while my sister was at work. (“Kann ich einen Kaffee haben, bitte?” I did try, albeit pathetically, and the barista would give me a look of pity [disgust? amusement? strangled patience?] and reply in English. He was very hip, though, with his long white hair pulled back into a ponytail.)
I’m sure I will, at some point, write more at length about our Vienna/Rome trip, but today I want to focus on the rather modern experience of traveling by plane.
There’s something about a place that is utterly lost when you’re flying high above it. The things that make each area unique get swallowed up into vague lights, shapes, and shadows. This reduction turns farmland into patchwork during the day and cities into Christmas lights at night. It’s beautiful – sometimes breathtakingly so – but it is too removed from daily reality to be quite living.
I stumbled across a poem that I wrote on one of my flights during this trip. It touches on the feeling of eerie yet peaceful detachment that comes from being above the world rather than surrounded by it.
* * *
A perfectly silent sea above me
Another sea below
The one above is glassy smooth
The other, ragged snow.
From my hyperterrestrial limbo
I count the sleepy cities beneath –
Isolated pockets of snuffed lights
Above and from whom frothy milk clouds
Peel away the nights
West to east
Like a caravan returning home,
Not in the least
Bothered or aware
Of the double seas soundlessly raging
Above them there.