Other people claim they hate plane flights, but I love them. I love the thought of two, or six, or in this case, twenty-two hours to myself. I can do whatever I want. I can read (People magazine, no less!), I can work, I can watch a movie, I can do a crossword, I can sleep, I can talk to my seatmate, anything! I realize that I could make these same choices in my everyday life, but other things seem to get in the way – social commitments, work commitments, doing everyday errands, blah.

I had a lovely German seatmate on the flight from SFO to Frankfurt. He was a very statuesque man and I almost (read, almost) offered my aisle seat to him. I felt much better when he explained he always requested a middle seat because his shoulders were so wide that he didn’t like the aisle seat; people continuously bumped into him. I didn’t feel quite so guilty about my coveted aisle seat. We discussed travel, and the thrill of living in another language – how that affects the way you think, how you express yourself. He had made a lot of money in the watch business (go figure) and invested in a few small properties in Germany. He rents apartments and garages. His friends and family badger him to buy more, invest more, more, more, more, but his attitude is, “Why bother? I live a comfortable life. Not extravagant, but comfortable. If I buy more properties, yes, I’ll be richer, but I’ll have to work more and have less time to enjoy what I have. Who wants that?” I love that attitude. We were having a lovely conversation, both of us plagued by insomnia, until the woman in front of us angrily stood up, turned around and shushed us with the admonition, “Some of us are trying to sleep!” We raised our eyebrows at each other, shrugged, and turned on our i-Pods.

I also love airplane food. Yes, I do. The presentation is magnificent. Little packets of food – a salad, bread, butter, a sampling of a main meal, dessert, *and* a piece of chocolate. It’s great. I’m a sucker for individual portions. And it’s served hot. Who doesn’t like hot food? I have a secret obsession with the refreshing towelletes that all but US airlines provide. I never use them on the plane, instead stashing them in my purse. I feel like I’m channeling my grandmother, who grew up in the Depression and saved twist ties and recycled tin foil. But refreshing towellettes are so useful! Especially when travelling. Suppose you’re in the desert and you’ve travelled for days. You arrive at an oasis and are offered plump dates by your host. You want to partake, but feel the grime and dust of three days of travel crusting your hands. But wait! You know you have a refreshing towellette and you briefly excuse yourself, quickly swiping the lemon scented towellette over your face and hands, returning to the feast feeling fresh and anew. See – there’s a reason I hoard these precious packets.

Not exactly the message you want to hear, particularly from your dentist. Or endodontist, to be more specific. You know, the guy that does root canals.

After over two hours of laying in his chair, mouth wide open, trying to drown out the sound of drills and “another number 10 file, please” with shuffled songs on an iPod, I watched Dr. Wing drop his hands in exasperation.

“I just can’t finish.”

What is this strange language my dental professional is speaking to me? I pressed the pause button on my iPod and lifted my head gently. I tried to mouth a question, but the apparatus in my mouth prevented me from doing so, and I simply made a gagging noise. I tried to formulate a response with my hands, but the instrument tray prevented me from raising my hands more than an inch or so. I finally stared at him, pleading, and raised my eyebrows.

“I just don’t feel comfortable with the work that I’ve done. You had four roots instead of three, which was a surprise, and they’re incredibly long. I can’t finish this today. We’ll have to make another appointment later in the week.”

I thought about this for a moment. He removed the clamps and rubber from my mouth. Not wanting to acknowledge what he just told me, I tried to ask, “What exactly does that mean?” and was consumed by a searing pain in my jaws.

“You’ll need to come back in, I’ll numb you, I’ll continue where I left off. There’s just a mm or so that I can’t quite get. I need more time.” He spoke these words so matter of factly. I was still having a hard time accepting this proclamation.

“And what would happen if we just left the root there? You got most of it, right? Let’s just call it a day.”

It was his turn to eye me with quizzical curiosity. I simply nodded and made a mental note to thank my parents for genetics that blessed me with long legs, long fingers, and as I realized now, long roots.

Watching the inauguration this morning, I was reminded how much power hope holds. Hope that the leaders of our country will make the tough choices to improve lives: through economic decisions, through social choices, through tolerance, through understanding, and through compassionate leadership. Not just the lives of Americans, but lives throughout the world. The situations remain the same as yesterday, but the potential solutions seem so much more promising today.

I don’t know if he truly understands me, or simply tolerates me, but either way, he’s won my heart. 

I smiled at the immigration official. She met my smile with a cold gaze. I shifted uneasily from foot to foot.

“So, how was your trip?” she uttered in a monotone.

“It was great. It was beautiful weather, and so relaxing. How were your holidays?”

She harrumphed. “Stayed here. Didn‘ go nowhere. Guess it’s okay, though, I’m gonna be a granma this year.”

I was sincerely surprised. “Congratulations! But, you don’t look old enough to be a grandmother!”

A flicker of a smile crossed her face. “I am. Baby’s due in June. My son’s already twenty years old; ’bout time he started making babies.”

I checked carefully for another flicker of a smile. Was this perhaps irony that I wasn’t getting? No. She was serious.

I’m overcome by sadness. It’s our last night here in Mexico and I’m packing, preparing to leave for the airport in the morning. This is the same feeling that used to wash over me at the end of summer vacation and currently visits me every Sunday evening – the feeling of enjoying something so much and not wanting it to end. Of wanting just one more (and more and more) day.

The discussion last night focused on what time we should leave this morning. The receptionist said Coba opened at 9; three websites said it opened at 8. It would take us an hour to drive there, so we suggested splitting the difference and leave at 7:30. That way, if it opened at 9, we’d only have half an hour to wait; if it opened at 8, we’d still beat the crowds. Bob was adamant that we beat the crowds and get there before the tour buses. We would leave at 7. Wearily we woke at 6:45 am. This is vacation, right?

We inspected the ancient carvings, which always seemed to depict a mighty warrior standing on two servants acting as footstools. We climbed to the top of the tallest temple pyramid, amazed at the view, jungle in every direction, the sea further out, lakes dotting the landscape. We retraced our path along the sacbeob (white ways connecting the temples), encountering first a few people, then larger and larger groups, until we reached our starting point. Bob looked at us knowingly. Two and a half hours had passed.

Before we departed the jungle to return to the parking lot, Bob stopped us. “For ice cream, how many tour buses are in the parking lot?”
“Are we including mini-vans?”
“No, only large tour buses.”
“Price is Right rules, if you’re over, you lose.”
“Four.”
“Eight.”
“Five.”
“Six.”

The tune was familiar, the words I didn’t recognize. I listened more carefully. Where was it coming from? I walked from our porch onto the beach. There stood a large group of all ages, children to elders, singing “How Great Thou Art” in Spanish. I watched as one member, cloaked in a white robe, waded from the beach into the water, deeper and deeper, until he reached a trio of men, waist deep in the ocean. The one in the middle wore a long sleeved, fancy snap cowboy shirt, cowboy hat shielding him from the noon sun. The other two stood reverently beside him. They received the one from the shore with open arms, then gently plunged him backwards into the sea, submerging him totally. He stood, lifted his arms to the heavens, then returned to the shore. He joined the larger group, his voice melting into the sweet notes, as one by one other members waded to salvation.

I bit hard on the mouthpiece. I chomped my teeth up and down on the plastic nodules on each side. It’s been years since I snorkeled. How hard could it be – it’s like riding a bike, right? I thought back to the last time I snorkeled, in Hawaii, maybe six years ago? Most important thing, don’t inhale water. I remembered that, the burning sensation of salt water in your lungs. Not something I wanted to repeat.

I plunged my face underwater and started swimming. I hadn’t swum far when I saw the first fish. I floated, still, my eyes scanning the area. The lone fish darted in and out of the coral and among the short sea grasses. I watched it carefully and in my stillness noticed more. Tiny, eel-like fish, nibbling on unseen treats. Fan coral, gracefully waving with the movement of the water. Sand colored fish, camouflaged against the sea floor. I slowly swam on. The next hour or so was a balance between swimming to new locations and peaceful observations. Noticing the big flashy fish first, then seeing everything else dwarfed by its existence. Circling a non-descript rock to discover the backside hollowed out, hosting dozens of spindly, prickly sea urchins. Drifting along, trying desperately to see further ahead, then glancing down, shocked to find myself above a school of dozens of velvety black fish, each with a shocking neon blue streak on its back. And then, as I navigated my way across the channel where boats enter the bay, struggling not to get caught in the rope, noticing a sea turtle just feet below me. In awe, I watched as it flapped its feet, gracefully advancing across the sea floor. I held my breath, not wanting to draw any attention to myself. Another turtle swam under the first and nudged it playfully on its underside. The first one swam upwards, closer, closer, and closer until I wondered if I should be afraid. Do sea turtles bite? Was this a turtle of the snapping variety? I gently propelled myself backward, out of the turtle’s path. It came to the top of the water, took a breath, then dove downward, oblivious to me.