The Way It Is

(Prelude to Hyperborean Hopscotch)

In the middle of an eight hour drive from Lawrence to Chicago, I crossed the Illinois River and looked up. Absent-mindedly steering across the bridge, my focus was not on the road ahead but rather the sky above, one of greys and pinks and beiges. Dirty cottonball clouds were strewn haphazardly about, like a careless child’s poorly executed art project. It was beautiful and gritty and I was excited to be where I was, going somewhere, somewhere I really wanted to go, unsure how it would all work out. I’d probably been driving in twilight for an hour. Yet in my brainless, autopilot drive-daze I had not realized the shift from total darkness to daylight until that moment. And now I was a little more alive.

It was August 14^th, 2017 and I had a plane to catch. 

In general, I despise city traffic, highway traffic, traffic of any kind, and other people around me altogether. So by the time I got to O’Hare International Airport I was already exhausted and deep into a fit of misanthropy.

If the world were a simpler place, I would have taken the train to Chicago. Unfortunately, Amtrak suffered a spontaneous construction project on the tracks of the only train running from Los Angeles, through my Kansas hometown, and ending in Chicago (a route called the “Southwest Chief”). Delays were setting the train behind schedule up to six hours on some days. Ridiculous. I called Amtrak several times when I learned of that potential trip-ruiner, because I had booked  a train to get into Chicago the same day I was flying out. After hours on hold and speaking with several unhelpful representatives, I decided to just email them. This attempt failed as well - I never received a response. Regardless, I couldn’t risk missing my flight. I had to drive myself. My roundtrip train ticket was not refunded and ultimately was chalked up as a sunk cost. Amtrak sure isn’t worried about it. None of the representatives I spoke with even acknowledged the inconvenience created by Amtrak's inability to provide the service I had already paid for. At this point Amtrak ranks up there (down there?) with Greyhound on my list of travel companies to avoid.

Which sucks, because I really like trains.

But enough complaining. Once my car was in O’Hare’s long-term parking lot and I was comfortably early for my flight, all was right in the world. The airport, by nature an alienating and distressing institution, was actually just an uneventful experience. The flight itself was quiet, easy, sleep-inducing. Given the journey ahead, I needed the rest.

I was jerked awake when the landing gears hit tarmac.
I looked out the window, and I was back.
Back in Iceland.
An adventure was starting.

A passage from Langston Hughes' travel-autobiography I Wonder As I Wander came to me, though I couldn't remember exactly how it went until I looked it up:

"I suppose she was like me - if she decided to get somewhere, or go someplace, she went. I have discovered in life that there are ways of getting almost anywhere you want to go, if you really want to go. You might have to squeeze through a knothole, humble yourself, or drink muddy tea from consumptive bowls or eat camel sausage, pass for Mexican, or take a last chance, but - well, if you really want to get there, that's the way it is. If you want to see the world, or eat steaks in fine restaurants with white tablecloths, write honest books, or get in to see your sweetheart, you do such things by taking a chance. Of course, a boom may fall and break your neck at any moment, your books may be barred from libraries, or the camel sausage may lead to a prescription of arsenic. It's a chance you take."

I didn't know exactly what was going to happen.
I never do.
That's the way it is.