We departed from Toronto early in the morning, but not as early as I thought we would. We got our luggage checked and boarded the plane with minimal difficulty.
This was the second time I had ever been on a plane in my life. We were flying to San Francisco, which would take about 5 hours, then going onward to Sidney, a 15 hour red-eye flight.
The plane was small, a tin can by comparison to some of the large planes making cross-sea trips. I will never forget the incredible surge of power I felt as the plane took off. I couldn’t fathom it, I wondered for a brief moment if this was even real. The plain veered skyward and banked, I felt my body float briefly as the plain gained the apex of the arc, the gut-sensation you get when you begin a roller coaster descent. I thought immediately how one could get airsick (fortunately, I loved the feeling!)
Flying over the entire country was a surreal experience. Entire cities looked like dust. The earth like scorched, crinkled parchment. I gazed on as mountains rose and fell, completely oblivious to the titanic height as I looked straight down. The curve of the earth was revealed before my eyes as the atmosphere stretched into the ink of space. It was like being in a different dimension, looking at similar things in such a different way. But, at the same time, something was lost. Looking at those mountains, an image that evokes fear and majesty, ubiquitous in the human condition, with trite curiosity bordering on apathy, was a strange feeling. Even though I have never seen a mountain in my life, I sill count it as not seeing one truly, because it was throught the port of an airplane.