1200 kilometres south-southwest of Hawai’i
5 January, 2006, 6:30 am PST (which is 2:30 am NZ time on 6 Jan)
As we were taking off from LAX, the captain informed us that our estimated flight time from Los Angeles to Auckland was 12 hours. We were pleased especially since our own calculations estimated our flight time to be 16 hours. Four fewer hours in the livestock hold (those two seats smack dab in the middle of the centre row of a 747 jumbo jet) was good news indeed.
After three hours in flight from Los Angeles to Auckland, the head of the flight crew came on the intercom with the following announcement:
"Ladies and gentlemen, one of our passengers is feeling unwell. If there is a doctor somewhere in the cabin, would you please make yourself known to the flight crew. Thank you."
Not good news.
Is there a doctor in the house? It’s something you expect to hear in a film or on TV, but never in real life. Do people get suddenly, tragically ill on plane flights? Of course they do—and the longer your plane flight, the more likely someone is to do it on yours. Does someone ever really get up and shout, "Is there a doctor in the house?" Apparently they do. Do doctors then arise and exclaim, "Why yes, I am a doctor!" Well, they didn’t exclaim, but by my count of people hustling down the aisle our flight had two physicians and an EMT on board. They made themselves known to the flight crew and the murmur of curious and half-sleeping passengers died away.
Things moved along as planned (bearing 225 at about 40,000 feet) until an hour or so later, when the captain came over the intercom and informed us all that it had been decided the ill passenger in our midst required immediate medical attention. (Apparently two physicians and an EMT huddled together in cramped quarters at 40,000 feet and hurtling across the globe at hundreds of miles per hour did not count as "medical attention.")
So we went to Honolulu. That yellow line on the movie screen in front of my seat made a right-angle turn and headed for Oahu. Numbers changed: distance to our immediate destination fell precipitously as time to our intended destination climbed inexorably. And we saw Hawai’i again, or at least the portion of Honolulu international airport that is visible through the window (at night). We sat on the tarmac and waited while the medics got the unfortunate passenger off and refueled the jet. Meanwhile we breathed some more recirculated air and tried to stretch our legs.
I should have taken that Ambien like Sara did.
Well, the crew managed to get the passenger off to a hospital and the doctor returned to his seat. (I’m glad they made that emergency landing. It meant quick help for our unlucky passenger; and if I were the one falling ill on a trans-pacific flight, I’d want them to stop for me.) They got us refueled and in the air again. Now we’re approaching the equator with about seven (that’s four additional—but who’s counting with this groggy brain?) hours of flight time remaining. We’ll get to Auckland a little late (after 16 hours in the air after all), but we’ll get there. And that’s the important thing. Sometimes you just have to take a little detour, that’s all.
~emrys
Thursday, January 05, 2006
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
Leav-vin' on a Jet Plane! What? Flight Cancelled?
Our time in Pasadena has been a wonderful flurry of activity, visiting and sharing meals with our friends that are still in the area. Finally our departure day has arrived. Sara, being the planner went online this morning to check the status of Air New Zealand Flight #3- our passage to Auckland. AirNewZealand.com promptly informed us our flight was cancelled!
So, as Pasadena gears up and thousands assemble for the Rose Bowl Game, we will flee to LAX, leave on a an earlier flight and arrive in Dunedin via a more direct route, earlier in the day on Friday, losing Thursday entirely to the crossing of the International Date Line. Let the international portion of the adventure begin!!
So, as Pasadena gears up and thousands assemble for the Rose Bowl Game, we will flee to LAX, leave on a an earlier flight and arrive in Dunedin via a more direct route, earlier in the day on Friday, losing Thursday entirely to the crossing of the International Date Line. Let the international portion of the adventure begin!!
Tuesday, January 03, 2006
Smells
1 January 2005
When you step off the plane onto the jetway, or climb down from the train, or clamber out of the car into a new place, the first thing you should do is to take a deep breath. You may know about the therapeutic effects of a deep breath especially if that inhalation accompanies a good long stretch. You may know how a rib-expanding breath can crack the spine that has known only a poorly-cushioned seat for the last eight or ten hours. You may have your own experiential reasons why you would, as I do, take a deep breath in a new place. But I have a different (if not exclusive) reason for taking that breath. Smell.
In spite of our cultural addiction to coffee and bathroom candles, the human sense of smell seems to be one of the lesser developed and appreciated of the five senses. Visual and auditory stimuli take front and centre in our media culture. Tactile sensations beckon from massage parlours and the front of stadium speakers. Glottal impressions imprint their values upon us at least three times a day—often more frequently. But the sense of smell receives a second place to the firsts of the other four. Televisions and computers neglect it; masseurs cannot finger our olfactory nodes; and the speed of our culture whisks food past the nose and into the stomach. Only the Body Shop and les entrepreneurs de parfum (who peddle aroma in a clumsy attempt to abstract its allure with screen and speakers) seem to receive the gift of the nose with proper respect.
This neglect strikes me as counter-intuitive. The sense of smell has some of the strongest attachments to the profound unspeakable emotions of the soul; it is capable of conjuring images in the mind by a single waft that would require a thousand brush strokes or a hundred spoken words. The scent of cologne can invoke the full depth of a child’s relationship with his father. The aroma of meatloaf can enfold the heart with a sense of home and a mother’s love. The smell of a hospital hallway can shock the heart to palpitations and the flesh to a nervous sweat. The scent of a first girlfriend’s hair or of the intimacy of a spouse can bring whole relationships to the surface with a thousand memories and a hundred emotions. Of the five senses the sense of smell holds the most secret power, able to brush the core of human being as a breeze brushes the cheek.
Yet the olfactory function of the nose and brain persist as profound and powerful interpreters of our environment. And so, I say, as we arrive in a new place we should take in a deep breath and all the scents such a breath will bring. For places have their own scents, so complex and intimate that we may perceive another dimension of our lives by paying attention to them. And the time passes so quickly in which these scents are new, for so rapidly our nostrils become accommodated to the slight nuances of aerial flavour and harmonies of aroma fall into a flat monotone backdrop. Take the opportunity, early on, to catch the scent of a place.
We arrived in Burbank, California today, to stay in Pasadena for three days before our flight to New Zealand. As we left the sterile environs of the airport terminal I took a deep breath. There was moisture in the air, wetness from the winter rains of southern California. The wetness bore the rich, strong leafiness of this plant-filled state, an odour of soil and chlorophyll. Woven into this tapestry of phyllophilic essence was the greasy aroma of petroleum emissions and vulcanized rubber that accompanied humanity into this once-desert environment. Burbank has its own smell, as distinctive as a Calvin Klein parfum but with deeper images than the model-studded billboards can offer.
Burbank is not like Kona, Hawai’i. Taking a deep breath on the Big Island fills the lungs and caresses the soul with a different aerial poem. The air in Kona hangs heavier about you, laden with the broad moisture of humid tropics. The leafiness is there, but darker, thicker, and more robust yet with thin threads of light fruitiness woven in. The aroma of that island is seedy, pregnant with coming growth like fresh potting soil though more colourful than that of any garden store. It is a mother-land in which the ever-ready rain in the air tells of warm fertility.
Neither of these two places is like the scent of New York City. There the sticky odour of asphalt and rubber tickles your nostrils with a sour overtone of hot steel. Invisible clouds of exhaust assault your glands with pockets of acrid bitterness. Eastern Pennsylvania farmland is still different. In the summertime the rich coolness of grass massages the nostrils with a soft welcome. In the autumn sour swirls arise from wet brown leaves and the winds carry the dry bland sweetness of cut cornstalks.
You must listen to your nose to catch it all, though. As I step out of the terminal in Burbank, California I wonder what the scent of New Zealand will be. For all the pictures I’ve seen, nature programs I’ve heard, and travel book restaurant reviews I’ve read, I have no idea how the place will smell. I can’t wait to step off the plane and take that first deep breath.
~ em
When you step off the plane onto the jetway, or climb down from the train, or clamber out of the car into a new place, the first thing you should do is to take a deep breath. You may know about the therapeutic effects of a deep breath especially if that inhalation accompanies a good long stretch. You may know how a rib-expanding breath can crack the spine that has known only a poorly-cushioned seat for the last eight or ten hours. You may have your own experiential reasons why you would, as I do, take a deep breath in a new place. But I have a different (if not exclusive) reason for taking that breath. Smell.
In spite of our cultural addiction to coffee and bathroom candles, the human sense of smell seems to be one of the lesser developed and appreciated of the five senses. Visual and auditory stimuli take front and centre in our media culture. Tactile sensations beckon from massage parlours and the front of stadium speakers. Glottal impressions imprint their values upon us at least three times a day—often more frequently. But the sense of smell receives a second place to the firsts of the other four. Televisions and computers neglect it; masseurs cannot finger our olfactory nodes; and the speed of our culture whisks food past the nose and into the stomach. Only the Body Shop and les entrepreneurs de parfum (who peddle aroma in a clumsy attempt to abstract its allure with screen and speakers) seem to receive the gift of the nose with proper respect.
This neglect strikes me as counter-intuitive. The sense of smell has some of the strongest attachments to the profound unspeakable emotions of the soul; it is capable of conjuring images in the mind by a single waft that would require a thousand brush strokes or a hundred spoken words. The scent of cologne can invoke the full depth of a child’s relationship with his father. The aroma of meatloaf can enfold the heart with a sense of home and a mother’s love. The smell of a hospital hallway can shock the heart to palpitations and the flesh to a nervous sweat. The scent of a first girlfriend’s hair or of the intimacy of a spouse can bring whole relationships to the surface with a thousand memories and a hundred emotions. Of the five senses the sense of smell holds the most secret power, able to brush the core of human being as a breeze brushes the cheek.
Yet the olfactory function of the nose and brain persist as profound and powerful interpreters of our environment. And so, I say, as we arrive in a new place we should take in a deep breath and all the scents such a breath will bring. For places have their own scents, so complex and intimate that we may perceive another dimension of our lives by paying attention to them. And the time passes so quickly in which these scents are new, for so rapidly our nostrils become accommodated to the slight nuances of aerial flavour and harmonies of aroma fall into a flat monotone backdrop. Take the opportunity, early on, to catch the scent of a place.
We arrived in Burbank, California today, to stay in Pasadena for three days before our flight to New Zealand. As we left the sterile environs of the airport terminal I took a deep breath. There was moisture in the air, wetness from the winter rains of southern California. The wetness bore the rich, strong leafiness of this plant-filled state, an odour of soil and chlorophyll. Woven into this tapestry of phyllophilic essence was the greasy aroma of petroleum emissions and vulcanized rubber that accompanied humanity into this once-desert environment. Burbank has its own smell, as distinctive as a Calvin Klein parfum but with deeper images than the model-studded billboards can offer.
Burbank is not like Kona, Hawai’i. Taking a deep breath on the Big Island fills the lungs and caresses the soul with a different aerial poem. The air in Kona hangs heavier about you, laden with the broad moisture of humid tropics. The leafiness is there, but darker, thicker, and more robust yet with thin threads of light fruitiness woven in. The aroma of that island is seedy, pregnant with coming growth like fresh potting soil though more colourful than that of any garden store. It is a mother-land in which the ever-ready rain in the air tells of warm fertility.
Neither of these two places is like the scent of New York City. There the sticky odour of asphalt and rubber tickles your nostrils with a sour overtone of hot steel. Invisible clouds of exhaust assault your glands with pockets of acrid bitterness. Eastern Pennsylvania farmland is still different. In the summertime the rich coolness of grass massages the nostrils with a soft welcome. In the autumn sour swirls arise from wet brown leaves and the winds carry the dry bland sweetness of cut cornstalks.
You must listen to your nose to catch it all, though. As I step out of the terminal in Burbank, California I wonder what the scent of New Zealand will be. For all the pictures I’ve seen, nature programs I’ve heard, and travel book restaurant reviews I’ve read, I have no idea how the place will smell. I can’t wait to step off the plane and take that first deep breath.
~ em
Monday, January 02, 2006
Raining on the Parade!
We arrived in Pasadena yesterday to cloudy skies and drizzle. Sophie and I walked at the Rose Bowl and finished out the 8 miles in the rain. Today for the first time in 55 years, those sitting three blocks away from us to watch the Tournament of Roses Parade are doing so in pouring rain. Don't think I'll be going out for that this morning!
~sjt
Friday, December 30, 2005
Attn: So Cal Friends
We will be in Pasadena from 1 January - 4 January when we take off in New Zealand. We have arrangements on the calendar to see many of you but if you haven't made it on our calendar yet and you're free Tuesday afternoon/evening, 3 January email Emrys or I and we'll hook you up with the "open house" details so we can see you before we take off.
Happy New Year!!
Wednesday, December 28, 2005
Sorting, Packing & Visiting!
With Christmas 2005 now just a great memory we are enjoying time with Sara's parents, brother Josh and Emrys' brother Christopher all in Phoneix this week. We will also get a chance to visit with Emrys' other brothers here in the area tonight as we all hang out before we take off to the ends of the globe (us to New Zealand and Emrys's brother/sis-in-law Geoff & Krissy to South Africa). We've done so much packing, sorting and repacking this year that by the time we land sometime next fall we'll be ready to settle! But first- we're off to see the world- which alas, requires packing!
Happy New Year to all!!
Happy New Year to all!!
Sunday, December 25, 2005
A Walk in Wisconsin
20 December, 2005
We left the dry warmth of Phoenix yesterday for the moist cold of the upper Midwest. A perpetual cloud of flurries has been falling since we landed in Minneapolis and drove to the small farming community of Colfax, Wisconsin. As I left for my walk through the farmlands of western Wisconsin, my Mexican hoodie quickly collected an assortment of the delicate, six-pointed flakes, as if we adorn me with real winter.
The land is flat here. But the level surface of soil serves a deeper fecundity rather than a bland sterility. Though the smooth surface of the land now appears uniform and blank, whispers of life echo all around. Single farmhouses, bastions of warmth under the grey blanket of cold hold lives waiting within, waiting for the inevitable turn of green. Rows of corn skeletons stand in broken poses, their pale brown spines defying the seasonal rigor mortis with the pride of promise for another year’s life to come. Stands of conifers shudder in the breeze, their defiant green tassels serving as festal fringes on the world’s robe of white.
There is life here. It waits patiently for winter to have its season, for the cold to snap and the chill to settle in, knowing even as the days grow shorter that they must grow longer again. Spring will come once more, and life will arise out of the wintery void, creation again from nothing. Unlike the Antarctic barrenness, which lies frozen under an endless frigidity, this wilderness has an unassuming expectancy.
It is the perfect place to remember Christmas.
We left the dry warmth of Phoenix yesterday for the moist cold of the upper Midwest. A perpetual cloud of flurries has been falling since we landed in Minneapolis and drove to the small farming community of Colfax, Wisconsin. As I left for my walk through the farmlands of western Wisconsin, my Mexican hoodie quickly collected an assortment of the delicate, six-pointed flakes, as if we adorn me with real winter.
The land is flat here. But the level surface of soil serves a deeper fecundity rather than a bland sterility. Though the smooth surface of the land now appears uniform and blank, whispers of life echo all around. Single farmhouses, bastions of warmth under the grey blanket of cold hold lives waiting within, waiting for the inevitable turn of green. Rows of corn skeletons stand in broken poses, their pale brown spines defying the seasonal rigor mortis with the pride of promise for another year’s life to come. Stands of conifers shudder in the breeze, their defiant green tassels serving as festal fringes on the world’s robe of white.
There is life here. It waits patiently for winter to have its season, for the cold to snap and the chill to settle in, knowing even as the days grow shorter that they must grow longer again. Spring will come once more, and life will arise out of the wintery void, creation again from nothing. Unlike the Antarctic barrenness, which lies frozen under an endless frigidity, this wilderness has an unassuming expectancy.
It is the perfect place to remember Christmas.
Saturday, December 17, 2005
Phoenix, Arizona
We spend a week in the curious melange of the American Southwest. It is a place to which thousands of Americans flock anew every day, but to which they must also bring their own water. The seguaros have known this for years, of course--that's why it takes them a hundred years to grow five feet in height. But human developments of homes, golf courses, rec centres, and pools sprout up in this arid clime as if there were a fountain of youth under every desert stone. Some strange inversion of values has drawn God's people back into the wilderness, where terebinths and cedars wither as seedlings and where milk and honey need swift refrigeration. And they need hand cream--lots of it.
But there is redemption in the newly populated desert.
Yesterday we drove in traffic for the first time since leaving Los Angeles. There, sitting behind the steering wheel, I relived some ancient dream: relaxing in the comfort of a beige bucket seat, sipping air filtered through the carbuerators and mufflers of countless cars while the gorgeous golden globe of the sun set in a wide polluted sky. Certainly this is how Phoenix is meant to be experienced. The cowboys can have their sunsets over the brown sandy fields of cacti, putting their lips to tin coffee cups. I will celebrate the dusk on a pale grey sheet of asphalt, my lips caressing the steel tailpipe of a Honda Civic. That's the real Phoenix, now.
I wonder if I'll be able to get a fix like that in New Zealand.
But there is redemption in the newly populated desert.
Yesterday we drove in traffic for the first time since leaving Los Angeles. There, sitting behind the steering wheel, I relived some ancient dream: relaxing in the comfort of a beige bucket seat, sipping air filtered through the carbuerators and mufflers of countless cars while the gorgeous golden globe of the sun set in a wide polluted sky. Certainly this is how Phoenix is meant to be experienced. The cowboys can have their sunsets over the brown sandy fields of cacti, putting their lips to tin coffee cups. I will celebrate the dusk on a pale grey sheet of asphalt, my lips caressing the steel tailpipe of a Honda Civic. That's the real Phoenix, now.
I wonder if I'll be able to get a fix like that in New Zealand.
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
Snow
We have left the land of snow and cold. But we received the treat of a few inches of new fallen Rocky Mountain snow in Durango this morning before we left. As I watched the final flakes descend from the sky, I thought about the miracle I beheld.
Yahweh did a wonderful job with snow. If you’ve ever seen pictures of snowflakes taken with an electron microscope, then you know of the perfect six-pointed fractal designs that are unique to collections of molecules made with single oxygen and two hydrogen atoms. It dances through the air with chaotic choreography, gracing the cold hard stage with its glass slippers. It blankets the world in silence, as if to say, “Be quiet, and observe the beauty before you.” Its insular cold beckons nature to sleep and forget the worries of life. It brushes wisdom and grace upon the heads of mountain tops, transforming dull knobs into shimmering towers. It gleefully bears the weight of children’s sleds and lovingly catches them when they fall. It is strong enough to bend the boughs of trees but humble enough to yield its territory when spring comes with its claim. And when it yields, it offers each year’s youthful sprigs just what they need to grow. What a perfect work did Yahweh with snow! Next time you see it, or hold it in your mitten, or catch it on your tongue, thank God for this wondrous creation.
~ em
Yahweh did a wonderful job with snow. If you’ve ever seen pictures of snowflakes taken with an electron microscope, then you know of the perfect six-pointed fractal designs that are unique to collections of molecules made with single oxygen and two hydrogen atoms. It dances through the air with chaotic choreography, gracing the cold hard stage with its glass slippers. It blankets the world in silence, as if to say, “Be quiet, and observe the beauty before you.” Its insular cold beckons nature to sleep and forget the worries of life. It brushes wisdom and grace upon the heads of mountain tops, transforming dull knobs into shimmering towers. It gleefully bears the weight of children’s sleds and lovingly catches them when they fall. It is strong enough to bend the boughs of trees but humble enough to yield its territory when spring comes with its claim. And when it yields, it offers each year’s youthful sprigs just what they need to grow. What a perfect work did Yahweh with snow! Next time you see it, or hold it in your mitten, or catch it on your tongue, thank God for this wondrous creation.
~ em
Monday, December 12, 2005
On the Road Again...
Like an upbeat country song, so our adventure continues. Today we moved out of the manse in Lake City and watched the peaceful town disappear in our rearview mirrors as we set out again. We are in Durango tonight and will drive on to Peoria, AZ tomorrow and spend a few days with Sara’s folks before we set out for WI next week.
We hope this Christmas season finds you filled with joy!
~sjt&e
We hope this Christmas season finds you filled with joy!
~sjt&e
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