Everything I Need to Know I Learned During the Pandemic

 Los Angeles, California

Did you ever see those greeting cards and posters from the nineties that listed: Everything I need to know I learned from my: Dog; Goldfish; Hairdresser... etc.? They were a play on the feel-good book, Everything I Need to Know I learned in Kindergarten. In trying to put a more positive ("positive", positive?), ok, not a word I like. In trying to put a more enlightened spin on a really awful time, I decided to compile a list of some of what I learned during the past pandemic year. The everything in the title was hyperbole.

I can cook for myself for 300+ nights. I logged each meal I prepared and can look back to see what I was eating from mid-March on. A friend asked why would you do this? If you don't get it, it's hard to explain, but recently, Sam Sifton of The New York Times Cooking wrote that he wished he would have done this. Just goes to show you. And, to come clean, there were instances of slipping down into dorm food. No, not Kraft Macaroni and Cheese (only once in my life), but there were some Roy Choi doctored-up ramen bowls. And that's ok. There were also Friday night meatless dinners, usually pasta. And pork tenderloins, a new recipe for roast chicken, lots of velvety slow-roasted or poached salmon; roasted chicken thighs with scallions and jasmine rice. My go-to salad was Caesar, usually without croutons, but with homemade Caesar dressing. There were very few desserts. I did not bake a cake nor brownies nor a pie during the year. I just haven't much of a taste for sweets except for an occasional Saturday night spumoni ice cream cone, and a run on Yasso yogurt bars that ran for most of the summer before petering out. Ok, to come clean, there was that box of Mallomars, but I never finished it. I mostly avoided potato and tortilla chips as I couldn't get small enough bags to eat. I am tempted to eat the whole bag, so it really needs to be a small one. Plus, I missed the Stuffing Potato Chips at Trader Joe's. Evidently they arrrived and were sold out the same day. That's ok, they'll be back next year. One thing I am very good at is delayed gratification. Maybe that's why I've more or less done ok through the pandemic. Not great, mind you, but ok.

I can cut my own hair. Then again, I have some experience having, in the past, gone at my hair occasionally after not getting the cut I wanted. I got much better at this through the pandemic. It's all about geometry and angles and then cutting into the ends so they lie less bluntly. I have long hair, so I am able to cut the back length. If my hairstyle was short, I would never have been able to do this. Fortunately, I made the decision a long time ago that after going through most of my adult life with a lob or a short bob, I would grow my hair out when I reached a certain age. It was an iconoclastic decision, as we heard when growing up that at middle age a woman should cut her hair and never wear jeans nor short skirts. But that bought into the American youth culture that indicated that mature woman lose their sex appeal. And that led to women trying to hang onto youth through plastic surgery. Eighty year-old women are not supposed to look like Barbie. That's just weird. I always admired women like Sophia Loren, Catherine Deneuve and Sonia Braga who seemed to fly in the face of that and embrace mature sexiness. And I liked the updos that both Hepburns wore as they grew older. My aunt, who was classically elegant, wore her hair in a Hitchockian chignon. As she aged, she switched to a Gibson Girl updo. Even in my thirties I knew that when I grew older I would emulate that rather than the Golden Girls look of my mom's hairstyle. That was a long time before I found myself in the LA salsa community where women can embrace femininity and sex appeal at any age, and for the most part, women have long hair and men have short. But I suppose the bottom line about my long hair is that, like most everything else in my life, it is about how I feel not what I think. And really, if you reflect on the liberation of our times including acceptance of people changing gender, isn't it silly to want to hold women to abide by those old rules? And to throw some judgement at judgementalism, when I hear people criticizing celebrities and others for their fashion choices, I can't help but think that it's a bit... shallow. Why should we care? So, if you want to wear white shoes after Labor Day, go head on, as it is alright with me. After all, I'm the one with the ponytail.

I can listen to my body. By setting up a fitness plan and adapting it as I went along, I began to pay better attention to what my body was telling me. I have done pilates for a couple of decades, and have worked with Cathy for much of that time. She is magnificent in her intuitive awareness of the body issues of her clients and patients (for she became a practitioner of Chinese medicine during this time). But, because I relied on Cathy, I got lazy and didn't pay enough attention to what my body was telling me in terms of what I needed and what I should forego in movement and exercise. Early on in the pandemic, I realized that I hate walking. For years I have tried to put myself onto a program which included walking, and it never worked for me. I returned to old-fashioned aerobics last March, and have not stopped. I incorporated salsa, weight work and mat work. And somewhere along the way, I actually started paying attention and varying my work by exploring the possibilities and limits of my body in motion. It was revelatory.

Follow the bad thoughts with good ones. Not to be confused with that positivity movement where anything bad happening in life is cast in an altered way. I thoroughly acknowledge the thoughts about what is evil in the world and what is sad and bad in my life. I let them have their full weight. But I have learned not to chase them down the road. I have also learned that there is a peril in positivity. It can keep you from living in all of the rooms of your house, so to speak. But you can follow a negative thought with a hopeful one. Not changing the thought into a "positive" one, but following the dark cloud with some hopeful rays of light. It's a completely different concept than positivity. You're not a kid pouring honey and maple syrup on evil vegetables, because you are secure in the knowledge that once the vegies are consumed, your dessert will follow. Weird metaphor for me, as I actually like most vegetables except winter squashes (which you actually can dress up with honey/maple syrup, but now this is getting crazy and the metaphors have taken control of the post).

There are all kinds of ways to connect with loved ones. I have carried on an email exchange, much like pen pals, with two friends; one new and one a reconnection from the past. Aside from being a practice in writing, it has been interesting to correspond on a variety of topics and get to know them better. One is a girlfriend who lives nearby. The other is a male friend who lives in London. With a few of my friends we have relied on texting. But with most we have connected through making dates to connect by phone or Facetime. The Facetime connections have mostly been happy hours. We spruce up a bit, shake up a cocktail, and visit as we used to, only now virtually. After our catch-up, we disconnect and go off to make our own meals. It's probably the connection that has been the most... human. Good to see faces again. Of course I miss the in-person contact. But sitting with masks on six feet away from each other for conversation just didn't work for me.

Time fills the day. I work out and/or write almost every day, and I have my daily round of things I must do to keep up my home. The one thing I thought I would have was a lot of unscheduled time. But I don't. At the beginning of the first lockdown, I drew up a weekly schedule and while it has evolved, I still manage to fill my day. I might be moving more slowly in order to do this, but I often run out of time to get everything done. How did I fit days spent with girlfriends into my pre-Covid life? Evenings spent with Joel dancing salsa? I think like water filling a glass, time fills the day.

A little bit of TV is more than enough. On New Year's Eve, I heard Anderson Cooper say that one of his hopes for 2021 was that people would stop telling him that he needed to watch Schitt's Creek. I was alone, but I laughed out loud. It seemed that a lot of people spent 2020 watching a lot of series TV. Lord knows I tried. And I did get through and even liked a couple that I watched. But I couldn't sit still long enough. There are just too many hours in series TV. I could barely get through movies. When I said to my friend, Christopher, that I would be thirteen hours closer to death if I watched a certain series, he responded that, no, I wouldn't. Which is true, but it's kind of like the old joke: Doctor, if I give up smoking, drinking, and sex will I live to one hundred? To which the doctor replied: No, but it will feel like it. No doubt, I watched an excess of CNN from October until this week. But a lot of the time it was just background. I did watch the Dodgers play through the shortened season. I listened to NPR. I put together workout playlists on iTunes. I wrote. I read. I dabbled in Spanish online. I resubscribed to the print version of The New Yorker. Meanwhile, I watched the first episode of a lot of the series that people recommended to me. I even made it through most of the first season of The Crown. And I got exercise walking away from all of it.

I will better value a lot of things when life resumes. Time spent with Joel at my house or dancing or watching Dodgers' games at the bar at Sol y Luna. Days or evenings spent with my girlfriends, and with Connie and Curt, and with Todd and Christopher. Finally being able to spend time with Larry. The resumption of Lynnette coming to stay at my house, as often as we can manage once a month throughout the year. Attending Mass at St. Charles Borromeo. Resuming pilates with Cathy and my partner, Beth. Shopping with Lisa at Century City on a sunny day. Having my Sonoma friends as houseguests for a summer visit. Going to afternoon movies by myself. Scheduling a writing retreat in a VRBO in Carmel. Getting to know my new neighbors better, and talking more about scheduling a street party. I wrote this quickly off the top of my head, and it is probably less than half of all I look forward to in the freedom of our future.

The biggest thing I learned was not a surprise at all. It is that I never want to go through another pandemic like this again. Due to its handling, we lost at least a year our of our lives. But the other side of it is, that if someone had told me that I would live this way for a year, I would not have thought I could do it. We did it, one way or another. It was crappy. It was a drag. It was impossibly hard at times. But if you learned more about your strength and your ability to follow rules when rules needed to be followed, you deserve a big gold star. And here is the thing that I didn't need to learn. That sometimes when things are bad, it is appropriate to feel bad. Life isn't designed to be always happy, despite what we all believed as kids while listening to Beatles' songs. Hang on just a bit longer. We are almost out of that long, long, long tunnel. Hey look! ... Here comes the sun!

Thank you for reading my blog.

  

Cup of Ramen

Lovely Los Angeles, California

So, we've hit the point in my Covid pandemic movie, where the protagonist is seriously fraying at the edges. And one of those edges is about food. I have been prepping three meals a day since I came home from Carmel just eight months ago, almost to the day. This week, dinner devolved into soup. Pretty good soup. I made ginger chicken with rice soup on Sunday which lasted two days. On Tuesday, I made a tuscan white bean soup with sage from my garden. Two days. Tonight I had a Trader Joe's Miso Noodle Cup. Ok, I'm not a philistine. I followed my own version of the Roy Choi method, adding an egg yolk, a slice of American cheese, sliced scallions and sesame oil. There is a great debate about this recipe, specifically about the American cheese. People hate that. You know who those people are. They're the ones who write comments at the bottom of recipes on Food52 or New York Times online food site saying what a great recipe it was after they substituted every ingredient and changed most of the method. While I wouldn't eat processed cheese as a rule, in this case it does melt into the broth along with the egg yolk creating a creamy, non-cheesy soup. So, that was what I made, all plunked into a bowl and eaten with a ceramic Asian spoon. On the couch, which has more or less become my new dining room. The old dining room being where I now do aerobics. I did use a cloth napkin, one of my twelve days of Christmas set of... twelve. How many days of pandemic? About two hundred and fifty and counting.

My kitchen is now my workshop, the kitchen table taken up with Christmas cards and other miscellaneous stuff. But before the cup of ramen, before the soup, I was cooking for myself in a more substantial manner. I made enchiladas. I roasted chicken thighs with scallions. I tossed pasta with fresh tomatoes and basil from my garden. And... I'm tired of it. I'm tired of making oatmeal for breakfast. I'm tired of cooking. I'm tired of eating. I'm tired.

Aren't we all?

...and when I first wrote this post last month, that was where it ended. But being tired shouldn't be the end of this. Yes, we're all tired. Not many of us thought it would go on for so long. But we have been a resilient people. And, despite a very vocal minority, we are mostly a population of forthright, cooperative folk. My grandparents endured food rationing throughout the war. There was a gas shortage in the 70s, and you could only gas up on odd or even days depending on your license plate numbers. How many droughts have we always endured in California as well as ubiquitous wildfires throughout the west?  So, if part of the worst of it is soup and HBO for a night, or for three hundred nights; tomorrow the sun will rise on another opportunity to connect with good friends, to write, to anticipate better celebrations of all the holidays ahead. So, while I am spooning up oatmeal and soup like Oliver Twist (though with greater quantity), I am trying to channel Annie. The sun will come out tomorrow... or one of these tomorrows, damn it! And I want to be among the first in line to bring joy back into life: Dancing; laughing with friends; enjoying houseguests and Dodgers baseball, kneeling at Mass in gratitude. I called this post Cup of Ramen, but I should have called it Hang in There. There is more pandemic time behind us than ahead of us. The vaccine is on its way, but until it arrives we need to hang in there for awhile longer. Can we do this? YES WE CAN. Thank you for reading my blog.

That Was the Year That Was, Part Two

Los Angeles, California

After what felt like too much time, our pilot finally came back on to announce that there was a problem with the aircraft. He then said something that you don't want to hear on a flight or in surgery: We're troubleshooting. But before that, he told us that the plane had lost the... elefantes? Huh? Our across-the-aisle fellow passenger leaned in. What did he say we lost? The pilot had a hispanic accent, to which my ear is well-accustomed. But the word for whatever we had lost had sounded muffled. At least I knew it wasn't a wing. We were now back up in altitude, and the passengers were mostly quiet. Our across-the-aisle friend was in texting contact with her husband and was relaying information to us. A lot more time passed without any information from the cockpit. Finally, the pilot came back on to tell us that they would be unable to land the plane in Monterey, and were going to land us in Fresno. Fresno? Dina, across the aisle exclaimed. Why aren't we landing in San Jose? Fresno is about three hours from Monterey. My friends, Brendan and Diana, were at that moment waiting at Monterey Airport to pick me up so we could celebrate our first night's dinner at Rio Grill.

Courtney turned to me, saying that this had happened to her once before, when she was living in San Diego. Her flight had been diverted to Palm Springs, and she had linked with some guys, strangers, to rent a car and drive to San Diego. That's what we'll do, she said. And she and Dina began planning for this across the aisle. I looked out the window. I didn't know what was wrong with the plane. I didn't know what was going to happen. Troubleshoot kept going around in my brain. We lost the... elementes? My phone was on Airplane Mode, but I texted Joel: There is a problem with our flight. I love you.

Courtney and Dina had a plan in place. Finally we were beginning to descend. The passengers on the plane was absolutely silent. I thought Maybe this is it. Maybe I'm going to die. And I never finalized my trust!!! I really did think that. But I also realized that I felt still. Not calm, but oddly still. And I prayed. And then I asked Courtney if she could do me a favor. Would you hold my hand? I wasn't about to go down without human contact. She immediately held my hand in both of hers. And she prayed outloud. Later, we joked about this: Fuck Covid! We're holdin' hands.

We landed in Fresno amidst a lot of emergency vehicles on the runway. But they didn't put us into crash position. I took heart in this. Dina had already said she would drive us to Carmel. She had attended Fresno State at one time and knew the road to Monterey well. By the time we landed, she had reserved a car from Hertz. Courtney was onboard with the plan and was keeping me with her. I was just a go-alonger by this time. When we were on the ground, I saw that Diana had texted me: Are you going to Fresno?!?

Once the door was opened, airport personnel rushed aboard: Omigod, we are so GLAD to see you!! A flight attendant was weeping. The pilot came back to the cabin to explain to us what had happened and why we were in Fresno. Fresno has the longest runway of the three airports: Monterey; San Jose; and San Francisco. There was also less housing around the airport, which gave us pause. They didn't want to let us off of the plane, and when they finally did, they told us to stay close. They were trying to figure out if they could fix the plane. Most of the passengers were saying Forget it and were making plans to find lodging. The weeping flight attendant, who was fairly new to her job, told us she was not going to get back on that plane. Dina spoke with the co-pilot. He explained, in his French accent, that the plane had lost its elevator, which stabilizes the plane and keeps it from flipping upside down as had happened with an Alaska Airlines flight which crashed into the bay near Oxnard some years back. The thud we had heard was explained as their attempt to take the plane off of automatic pilot. It didn't go well, he said. They had lost some of the plane's computer function at that time which was what they were troubleshooting. We really didn't know if we would be able to land it, the co-pilot told her.

Enroute to the Hertz counter at this very small airport (I suspect we were the only flight that landed that night), Dina asked us to watch her bag while she used the restroom. She returned with a pretty young brunette woman, who Dina had found in the restroom, shaking. She's coming with us. Dina got the keys to the Ford Explorer, and we were in the parking lot before anyone else got out of the airport. Courtney told me to sit up front. She got into the back with the newest member of our new group, Camille from New York. There was misting rain. Dina checked navigation. It says three hours, she said. I can make it in two and a half. And thus began our journey.

We were more or less four strangers. Courtney and I, by now, had a three-hour friendship going, aided by thirty minutes of hand-holding. Camille was thrown instantly into the mix. We navigated out of the airport and Dina shortly had us on the highway heading toward Pacheco Pass. I had lost two friends in a car accident on this highway many decades ago. It had changed my destiny. But that was then. This was now. Over the almost three-hour drive (there was a restroom pit stop), we shared stories that I am convinced we would never have shared with acquaintances. Stories of being in school near ground zero on 9/11. Stories of boyfriends and husbands. Stories of divorces and suicides. It was a profound experience with three women who were only briefly strangers. I am convinced that this experience could only happen with women. We all remarked on how lucky we were to have connected. Courtney kept repeating And I wasn't even in the right seat! And I thought about what it would have been like to be sitting next to someone who had kept to themselves throughout the flight experience. Someone I couldn't have asked to hold my hand.

Dina drove us each to our destinations. Camille was visiting friends who lived in Carmel and was dropped off first. We all hopped out at each stop and hugged. We had already shared phone numbers. At my stop, Brendan and Diana came out of our VRBO rental in downtown Carmel to greet us. It was midnight.

Over the next few days we group-texted each other a lot. Dina texted that they were expecting guests for dinner the next night when her husband casually mentioned: Don't you have a rental car to return? She would not accept our sharing the cost of the rental. The next day I texted: Is anyone else constantly ravenous? We all reported feeling some degree of post-trauma shakiness while feeling abundantly grateful for survival and each other.

Dina was home. The rest of us flew home out of three different airports on Monday. Camille flew from San Francisco to New York; Courtney from Monterey back through Phoenix to Austin. Brendan and Diana drove me to San Jose on their way home to Sonoma, so I could fly directly to Burbank. Parking and walking into the airport we immediately saw that life had changed. As my mother would say, you could have shot a cannon through that normally-bustling airport. There were nineteen people on my flight including crew. No one in rows ahead or behind me. I Lyfted home from the airport. Camille and Courtney both texted later when they had arrived home safely. It was March 9th.

On Saturday, March 14th, I had plans to have dinner with my friends, Connie and Curt. Connie texted that we should go out to dinner, so I wouldn't have to bother cooking. I don't think so, I wrote. With this Covid thing intensifying, I suggested it would be better if I cooked. I waited for them on the front porch as they drove up my long driveway. When they got out of their car, I called out Do we hug? Curt said no. I can't remember what I cooked that night. But I will tell you that it is the last dinner for guests that I cooked in 2020. It was March 14th. The Stay-at-Home order started a few days later.

We ladies from Flight 5905 have stayed in touch all year. Camille's mom, a nurse at Brooklyn Hospital, was one of the first cases of Covid I heard about in the community of the people I know. Sadly, Dina lost her mom later in the year, and Courtney lost her grandfather, neither to Covid. In our own way, we hung onto each other. I have a hope that we will have a reunion some time in the future. We know each other, but we really don't know each other. And it would be interesting to get better acquainted outside of a plane and/or a Ford Explorer.

Of course I thought the flight experience would be the worst thing that could happen to me in 2020. Remember the high hopes that I had for the year back in January? But I am also mindful of the friend who called out: I hope it's a good year! It was not. But we rode it out, for the better and for all of the worst. And now it's behind us, and 2021 has just begun. And what I want to write about that is this:

 I hope it's a good year!!!

Happy New Year to you all, and a heartfelt shout out to the Ladies from Flight 5905.

That Was the Year that Was

Los Angeles, California

On second thought, I decided to reflect back on the year that has just passed. I mean, what the hell, right? This would be a lot easier if we were out of the messy pandemic that has immobilized a great number of us. Not all. But that's another subject.

I ended 2019 dancing salsa with Joel. We left the club around 11:30 as the floor had become too crowded. Women with augmented lips and breasts were there to be seen. There was freestyle, what I call duck-paddling, going on to pass for dancing. Lots of shakin' it. They didn't know how to dance salsa, but they clearly knew how to drink. And they were drinking crappy, sugary cocktails that they also knew how to spill on the floor. Dance shoes are suede-soled. Suede soles are not happy stepping in sugary spills.

I didn't have a problem with leaving early. New Year's Eve has never been a favorite holiday, though improved in recent years. Joel went home to his first love, Buster the Bassett, and I put on comfy pjs and watched the ball drop. I wrote in my journal: It's going to be a good year. Frankly, it was the worst holiday season I had ever experienced, and I was happy to see the holidays and the year ending. I signed off my last journal entry of the year, writing: As Scarlett said: After all, tomorrow is another decade...

The next day I wrote: It is a new time. I went to my friends' always lovely, annual open house. A few of us stayed late, and Steven, our host, rewarded us by playing his guitar and singing Beatles' songs. It was, I thought, a great way to kick off the year. There was one small incident, when someone called out as they left: I hope it's a good year! And another guest commented that she didn't like that. She thought the sentiment of hope wasn't "positive." I recapped all of this in my journal, writing: But it was real. Shit happens, and maybe the most and best we've learned to do is to hope for the best. And that's ok. It's a new year. A new decade. I do hope it's good.

Joel was sick through a lot of January. I wrote in my journal that he was killingly sick, coughing a lot. In retrospect, I suspect Covid, as we now know that the West Coast probably had Covid earlier than once thought. Cathy, my friend and pilates guru, commented that there was something weird going around. A cold that doesn't go away. She was also sick.

Ten days into the year, I spent a day with Lisa at Century City. It was a warm January LA day, and we ate lunch at Eataly, and had a lot of fun shopping and walking around the outside shopping venue together. I did, however, knock her agua fresca to the floor at the take-out place where she was picking up dinner at the end of our day. Luckily, clumsy doesn't really get in the way of a good girlfriend day. January 2020 was already much better than December 2019. I wrote in my journal: I have got lots of good in my life right now.

I got the call in February that a friend had passed away. It hit me hard. I hadn't seen her, hadn't seen them, in the five years since Tom had died. We stayed in touch through birthday and holiday cards. But I knew she wasn't doing well, and knew I should reach out. I just couldn't. They were the couple we saw regularly for movies and dinner and birthday celebrations. It was hard for me, and I couldn't surmount it. Lynnette admonished me that I should make an effort. It was the right thing to do, plus I think she understood that I would feel bad if something happened to either of them. I agreed that I should make an effort. And I said I would. But I didn't. It was now too late to let Susan know how much she had meant to me, but I told Larry that I would be there for him.

Lent began on February 27th, and as in the past few years, I wasn't giving anything up. I've given up enough, I wrote. But I was still in a better place as I began Lent without a practice of deprivation. On March 1st, I went to Mass at St. Charles Borromeo, the beautiful church I attend, which is nicknamed: The Church that Hope (Bob) and Crosby (Bing) built, as it was, at one time, the parrish of both. I returned home, and began getting organized for my upcoming trip. March 3rd was Super Tuesday and my guy, Biden, was doing well. Predictably not doing well in green and ultra-blue California, but everywhere else. I was now packed for the trip and ready to roll.

On Wednesday, March 4th, I flew to Phoenix out of Bob Hope Airport in Burbank. We were now aware of the pandemic, and had been advised to wipe down our seat and surrounding area on the plane, which I dutifully did. I had a conversation with my seatmate, who was traveling with her twin to meet a girlfriend in Scottsdale. We landed in Phoenix, and Lynnette was there to meet my flight, having just flown in from Newport Beach. Our annual Spring Training trip had begun. We went to three games: two Dodgers' games and two Giants' games (one being the Dodgers v. Giants). We met my family-but-in-a-good-way friends for brunch and met the new baby, Etta. And we went to our favorite Phoenix hamburger place, Zinburger, where I ate my last restaurant hamburger of 2020. It was delicious, washed down with a draft IPA. We played our favorite game, Ticket to Ride, each night in the bar at the hotel. We didn't realize that we were winding down from normal, and plunging toward a year of immobilization and isolation.

On the afternoon of our third day, Friday, March 6th, we Lyfted to the airport together, and Lynnette waited with me for my flight which was earlier than hers. I was flying to Monterey to meet my friends, Brendan and Diana. As we sat in Phoenix Sky Harbor airport, Lynnette told me that she never talks to anyone in airports or on flights. Even when she traveled with her husband, they didn't talk to each other. That's crazy, I said. I've met some really interesting people and have enjoyed the serendipitous conversations. Sometimes Lynnette and I just have to agree to disagree.

I boarded my American Airlines flight. It was a small plane, two and two with a center aisle. I dutifully wiped down my space with the folded Clorox wipes I had brought in a Ziplock. And... here comes my seatmate. A thirtysomething, pretty blonde with long eyelashes, and a huge carryon. She sat down and pulled an entire container of Clorox wipes out of her bag, like Mary Poppins!

Courtney from Austin, Texas, and I introduced ourselves and we talked through the boarding of the rest of the passengers. Towards the end of this process, a young woman came down the aisle, and stopped at Courtney's seat. I think you're in my seat, she said. Courtney began to rummage through her M. Poppins' bag to find her boarding pass. This took some time, and she never did come up with it. Never mind, the woman said, politely. I can just sit here, she gestured at the empty seat in front of Courtney.

Courtney had connected in Phoenix enroute to Monterey for a girlfriends' weekend in Carmel. And she was lively and lovely. We talked about our lives, and her three school-age kids, and how much fun we were going to have with our respective friends in Carmel. I had a Heineken, she drank champagne, and the flight went quickly. We were descending into Monterey Airport on schedule. And then, in that long space when planes are seemingly floating down to a lower altitude in preparation for landing, there was a shuddering clunk. It wasn't the sound of the landing gear being lowered. And then... we weren't descending. Over an interminable time, it became apparent that we were going back up. About ten minutes after we should have landed, the woman seated in the window seat across the aisle, with the aisle seat next to her empty, told us that her husband was at the airport and was texting her that they were indicating that we were no longer on approach. The chatter on the plane was diminishing. It was getting too quiet.

To be continued...