Sylvia's Journal

The waiting, for the evening to start, for our driver to come, for getting through the security line, then the check in line, the passport control line, and the last line of getting on the plane, seemed interminable. The plane was full, not one empty seat. It was also full of newly adopted babies and couples experiencing the first stresses of travelling with infants that cry a lot. Nevertheless I managed to sleep the first half of the flight and killed the second half by watching Slumdog Millionaire on the tiny screen in front of me, and being distracted by the excitement of our airplane breakfast.

We had only a couple of hours in Amsterdam; too short to go to the supermarket in the arrival hall and too early on Sunday morning to call people. But there was time to buy cheese and chocolates for back home. I bought Liz the State of Africa to give some historical and political context to her next visits to Africa. All the places we work have their last 60 years explained. The post-colonial history of Africa is confusing, complicated and not very pretty.

I am allowed to bring one guest into the KLM lounge on my Flying Blue Platinum Elite card, the most important benefit of flying this much. This is where I introduced Liz to cheese for breakfast and a café-au-lait that was not as good as our Ethiopian macchiato but much better than the Northwest airplane coffee served on flight 59.

I made my routine ‘I-am-out-of-Africa’ call to Axel as soon as we touched down and cell phones were allowed. He was still in February while I was already in March and assured me that this time he knew I was on the early morning flight and would be there before I walked out into the arrival hall (he was).

En route we befriended an American-Ethiopian with a Red Sox baseball hat, which is how we knew he was going our way. The plane to Boston was half full again and without any adopted babies – the couple with the crying infant and toddler was heading to someplace north of Sioux City on another plane. I imagined the home coming banners, flowers and balloons that would great the little family at the home airport. Such excitement for some, bewilderment for the little kids.

Our plane had a large contingent of women, of all ages, who returned from Tanzania, several of them with henna tattoos on their hands, except the white-haired and osteoporotic grandma sitting by the window. One of them was very sick and needed more than one barf bag. I thought of Liz and her good timing.

The 8 hour flight was interminable – day flights tend to be that way, especially when you are going home. I slept a little, read a little, played solitaire and reviewed comments on the introductory chapter I wrote for another book we are publishing later this year and struggled with comments that I did not agree with. Writing is a very subjective business and it is the last frontier for me for dealing with criticism. It kept me busy reflecting during our long descent into Boston; one way to kill time.

Upon landing a few more lines and more interminable waits (getting off the plane, immigration, luggage and customs) before being reunited with Axel – the best part of the entire trip.