The Night Old Dixie Drove Me Down

Well. Rutambuka and I are back safe on the southeast side of the Atlantic again after two whole months away. For some reason, now that I'm back, it feels like I never left at all. And yet, the St. John portion of the trip seems like it took place over a year ago. Strange how the mind handles memories, stretching and bending and folding them at will. (Yet, you cannot fold a single memory (no matter how big) eight times or more - it's just not possible. Try it and see.)

A rundown of the whole air travel with toddler experience:

Going over, as many have heard, Rutam doused me in extra-grande double-upchuck au lait ten minutes into our thirteen hour flight from Johannesburg to Atlanta. Totally soaked, scalp to sole. I'd brought no spare pants or shoes for myself and the "Fasten Seat Belt" sign was still fiercely illuminated when it happened. I wanted to move, to bolt, to undo the mess I was wearing, but also didn't want to upset anyone. We hadn't even reached cruising altitude and there I was - a stinking caricature of motherhood misery, soggy as a sponge and sour-smelling as... somebody covered in baby puke. Rutam was also pretty drenched, poor thing. It was all pretty wretched. And sad. I felt very exposed and feared the wrath of my fellow passengers. There were torches in my thoughts, and pitchforks...

Eventually, a kindly air hostess came along and futilely blotted us with several outsized wads of paper towels. She wore southwest Native American style jewelry (silver feathers and turquoise) and didn't pussy-foot around the fact that I was a total mess. She gave me permission to go to the bathroom (before the seat belt light was turned off! The perks!), where I changed Rutam's clothes before performing my own particularly feeble version of "Freshening Up in an Airplane Lavatory". I returned to my seat weary and still reeking, and spent the next nine or so hours losing the sensation in various parts of my anatomy as I struggled to hold onto and support Rutam through the thrash-yoga of her sleep, the leggy choreography of her dreaming.

If the trip over was a tale of horror, then the trip back was one of inconvenience. Coming back, at least, I knew what to expect. I knew, for instance, not to feed the babe greasy french fries for dinner before the big flight. I knew, also, that the whole affair (D'burg to NY to Atlanta to Johannesburg to Cape Town) was fraught with nightmarish potential. I was ready for anything and thank goodness for that. Turns out, we sat on the runway at Laguardia for well over two hours before finally, amazingly, gloriously taking to the sky. And Rutam was excellent throughout all of it. She really was. She looked at her books (over and over and over again, bless her), she played with her toys, she ate her raisins. Unfortunately, though, we landed in Atlanta almost three hours late and missed our eight pm flight to Jo'burg. There wasn't another one out until the same time the next day. We'd have to stay a night and a day in "Hotlanta". And neither of us was feeling very "hot".

Ah, Atlanta. How will I remember her? Waiting bleary-eyed for the hotel shuttle bus, eleven pm rain halos around the street lamps. Pushing Rutam back and forth, back and forth in her stroller while our fellow denizens of Somewhereotherthanatlanta made their own gestures of stranded caginess all around us on the sidewalk. Charles, the young and irrepressible, somewhat fey Sleep Inn desk clerk. (He was amazingly cheerful for someone who works the night shift in a dull hotel that people only stay in when something's gone wrong; he should be promoted.) Ordering a pizza and eating the whole thing (Rutam had one slice), watching a bit of Letterman.

The next day - hours to kill. Looked in the phone book. Swear I saw a coupon for 25% off bail bonds. (Does this seem wrong?) Watched the Emmy awards on cable TV and realized how boring they are if you only ever watch Entourage and Deadwood. A walk outside: Highway 85, self-storage facilities, pawn shops, hair braiders. Not even a really good gas station. Feeling a bit scared. Creepy. Retreat to Sleep Inn. Hole up until it's time to go back to the airport.

In the airport, we find our gate in the international terminal. It's pretty swanky, actually, and there's a lady playing the piano in the food court like it's some kind of fancy hotel lounge. There are a few servicemen around and she thanks them as they walk past. I get a little choked up about that, but I manage to swallow it. Sometimes the world is just too loaded and layered to even think about. Rutam and I eat our last meal in the US and then I chase her around for a while. She is thrilled to be able to run, dashing and tripping through those great, bustling hallways.

Eventually, we board the stifling plane, but there's no throwing up this time. We are seated between a preacher and a doctor, and they make for very friendly, accommodating neighbors. Rutam sleeps about eleven of the fifteen hours in the flight and all goes smoothly. (I even get to watch two movies - "Sunshine Cleaning" and "Changeling".)

Eventually, we get back to Cape Town. Finally, we see Stumpy.

At last, we are back.