Spring out of bed at the first squawk of the alarm.
Stumble to the shower.
Lean under the strong stream of hot water, the last good shower for a while, but only for the 10 minutes you have allotted.
Hurry to dress in the clothes you laid out last night.
Load up the car.
Pause in the doorway to review the checklist once more: passport, wallet, spare contact lenses.
Drive to the airport, exceeding the speed limit even though you’re right on schedule.
Park the car.
Sit waiting for the shuttle-bus, taking a moment to memorize the route back to your car.
Jockey for a position close to the doors.
Sway with the loose suspension of the shuttle on the ride to the terminal.
Step down to the curb.
Roll your suitcase through the automatic doors.
Queue up at the check-in counter.
Shuffle your way toward the desk, keeping one hand on the handle of your suitcase.
Wait while the counter agent examines your passport and clicks an inexplicably large number of keys to produce a boarding pass and check in your bag.
Scramble to beat a group of 15 students to the security line.
Contemplate the geopolitics of the modern world and the excessive carry-on luggage of your fellow travelers.
Step, wait, step, wait, step, wait, step, wait. (Repeat many times.)
Pass through the metal detectors without incident.
Take a seat to put your shoes back on.
Stroll in the general direction of the gate.
Stop for a leisurely cup of coffee and a day-old Danish; your flight won’t board for another hour and 15 minutes.
Browse a magazine with as much concentration as the blaring announcements allow.
Explore the gate area for a suitably empty bank of seats.
Sit.
Muse on the fact that you’ll be sitting for the next 12 hours.
Pace back and forth between the bookstore and the duty-free shop.
Press forward into the crowd waiting to board the plane.
Consider, as you always do, the eagerness of the passengers to be first in line to surrender their freedom of movement.
Pause and smile politely as the gate agent checks your passport.
March down the jetway.
Duck to enter the plane.
Squeeze past the passengers blocking the route to your seat.
Heave your carry-on into the overhead bin.
Shoe-horn your large frame into the seat.
Fidget with the light switch, the call button, the air nozzle, the seat beat, and the emergency instruction card.
Eye the in-flight magazine, but decide to leave it in the seat pocket.
Await the boarding of the remaining passengers.
Listen for the sounds in the luggage compartment, the activity in the galley, the closing of the main hatch, and the other clunks and clicks that precede departure.
Stare out the window as the plane taxis and stops, taxis and stops.
Recall statistics about the danger of take-offs and landings.
Seek the still, quiet place at the center of your being.
Hide there from the uncomfortable seat, the noise and vibration, the dry, recirculated air, the coughs, the sneezes, the crying baby, the Nintendo game, the leg cramps, the mindless chatter, and your own impatience to be back in motion.
Note: The assignment was to consider the states of stillness and motion. I opted to make a game of the exercise by starting each sentence with an imperative verb. I tried to stick to verbs that suggest either a lot of motion or none at all, but that wasn’t always possible within the context.
© 2008 Edward F. Gumnick
You did an excellent job of describing every trip out of town I’ve ever made. And I can see where you are showing stillness and motion. I just never experience the stillness moments as still. Somehow in an airport even stillness feels like chaotic motion to me. The verb trick is smartly done as well. I think you got the active verb/passive verb thing to work. My favorite verb? Shoe-horn.
The still moments aren’t very still, are they? The sit-and-wait parts of travel are always full of tension for me—the tension of a rubber band that’s about ready to snap—even when I’m on a plane crossing the ocean. I love being in Europe, but it’s hell to get there!