Sunset from above

I let myself drift into sleep, almost. I lean my head back and allow myself to fall in rhythm with the humming undercurrent of the drone of the engines, or maybe it's the wind rushing past the plane, redirecting its flow as the mass of aluminum and flesh glides forward. The pockets of light, warm chatter of a few pairs of people seems distant, and they feel more like whispers, or a lullaby. In my moment of hypnosis, I see my mind falling backwards through my seat and the fuselage, into night sky. The clouds are like their own city. A city of dreams. Life above this city reveals a crimson horizon, one that fades with much more patience and fire than the standard terrestrial sunset. This moment feels eternal. I could remain here forever, suspended in the fresh sky, separate from the world below, protected by the moon and its lunar gleam.

I snap back out of this hypnotized state and regain control as an observer of this vessel. The man next to me was reading The Brothers Karamazov, while the man next to him has his Kindle. Both are now drowned in their slumber, seduced by the airplane's siren song that nearly took me. When the pilot's voice mumbles that the time is now for people to use their electronic devices, an urgent and long awaited rummaging builds throughout the plane. The sleeping passengers wake up, and rub their eyes in search of a clearer picture of reality.


I'm flying Delta, the airline that provides its passengers with those classic cookies traditionally dipped in coffee. When the flight attendant, a proper man in his late thirties with a well manicured beard reaches me, I request my usual snack/drink combination: orange juice - from concentrate, no ice - and that good ol' cookie. I decided on these two choices when I started flying regularly between New Orleans and Detroit a couple years ago. I feel a bit slighted and confused when my neighbor - Karamazov - gets a full can of Canada Dry, while I only get a cup of my drink. Because we're flying to Detroit, I would expect Delta to carry Vernor's, and I consider it rather criminal that they don't (nothing against Canada - I'm on good terms with the Habs and I think I speak for most of my native land in saying that we maintain a healthy, open relationship with our neighboring nation) I realize, in that moment, that I'm flying someplace fortunate enough to have maintained a tight enough hold on its local pop, and that the national sphere has refrained from consuming it. I consider it a success in the preservation of regional integrity.

I assume that most, but not all, of the passengers on this flight are landing in Michigan, for Michigan. I'm sure at least twelve or so people are using DTW to connect to another flight, and that their time there will be short. DTW, Detroit's international airport, will serve as a pit stop for them, an in-between state for their true destination. Is DTW even a real place for them? A few, I'm certain, will rush head-first to their next flight, with their wheeled baggage in tow, and won't take a moment to realize where they are, or that they simply are somewhere. They won't know that the area they occupy exists and is a portal to a larger, magnificent world, the same way their portal will connect them to New York, or Denver. Those with a few hours between planes might treat it like just another shopping mall, an opportunity to accumulate souvenirs from their visit to Michigan, while others may just settle in at one of the bars and linger. I am willing to forgive the way they will treat the airport, the place. I understand they are only trying to get one flight closer to home.

I mix the cookies and orange juice in my mouth and finish my snack with force. I wait for the flight attendant to swing back around and collect my trash. I don't want to leave it, that would be rude. I lean my head back once more, this time with intention - a quick nap before landing - and fall back into the night sky, where the once-crimson horizon is now enveloped in the blue oblivion.