Returning home west, against the headwinds, is always much slower than being pushed eastward by the tailwinds. Thus, jet-lag is much worse once we get back here.
Much of the continent below looked frozen, white. Although New York's weather improved, so that we no longer needed gloves and scarves, landing in San Francisco was a true shock.
Here, the spring has arrived with a bang, and the thermometer has risen into the 70s. Windows are open, folks are standing around, drinking, no one needs more than a tank top or a tee shirt.
It's always disorienting to me to criss-cross the country in 72 hours (plus change), even though I've done it hundreds of times. I just can't quite comprehend how our bodies can be moved around so easily, while our thoughts, feelings, and desires may be left far behind, or remain far ahead.
We have so many cliches, like "home is where the heart is," etc. But, in my adult life of frequent travel, where 100,000 miles on an airline has never been hard to achieve, I've often found myself in one place, only to have left my shadow in another.
I've been looking out an airplane's window, at an alien landscape below, flying away from someone, some feeling, some instinct. I've scribbled letters, and handed them to airline attendants who offered to mail them for me, from one port to another.
Such is the confusing romance of travel. For some of us, the heart's home may truly be on the road.
But not, ultimately, for me, at least not now. Home is in my flat in the Mission, my kids asleep nearby, my music playing, my books beckoning, and the memories of lovemaking right here, in this room, on this bed, so vitally alive.
Since it is now springtime, with the government's Daylight Savings move confirming the season's arrival, my thoughts -- and posts -- now will turn mainly to love.
I will write about love and loving this week.
-30-
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