“You get a strange feeling when you’re about to leave a place; like you’ll not miss the people you love, but you’ll miss the person you are now at this time and place because you’ll never be this way ever again.”
This quote always resonated with me, because it seemed to make perfect sense. No matter where you are, when you return to that place, you’ll be a different person than you were the first time.
I’ll be the first to admit that I dislike flying. Giving up control to a nameless, faceless captain and trust that this metal tube won’t crash into the ground from 36,000 feet isn’t something I’m good at — but as I fly more and more in the course of my travels, I can’t help but learn to like certain aspects of the experience.
One of them is take off. As you sit in your seat, idly staring out the window, the entire frame of the vessel begins to hum with power. Everything vibrates. It begins a slow taxi down the runway, before suddenly bursting into tremendous speed.
The world outside the window passes faster and faster, until there is a slight jolt…and the next thing you know, you’re in the air. The feeling of excitement and anticipation is hard to describe. It’s a combination of mankind’s mastery of the elements and a trill of anxiety for the unknown. It’s tough not to be in awe of; flight is nothing short of miraculous.
Another aspect I’ve come to love is landing. Most flights are, thankfully, boring. There’s only so much you can do while on a plane, and most of it involves trying not to awkwardly fall asleep on your seatmate’s shoulder. And given that most flights are very, very long (the flight from Atlanta to Saigon, for instance, was a total of 22 hours), the announcement of landing is a welcome one.
What quickly follows is a rush of excitement, especially if it’s my first time visiting a place. I always enjoy watching out the window as the plane slows and makes its descent, watching a new land rush up towards me. The knowledge that I’ll soon be there, exploring a place I’ve only heard of in books and moves — and sometimes not at all — makes me excited in ways that are hard to describe.
But this comes at a price. To fall in love with a country so deeply means that it hurts even more when you have to leave. The night before departure, I’m usually a bit melancholy, thinking of all the great memories I’ve made in a place. That’s how I felt the day before yesterday, when I stood in Ueno Station and listened to an unseen musician crooning the notes to a sad melody.
The first drops of rain threatened to fall from the increasingly overcast sky, but the life of the city hadn’t lessened at all. Couples strolled under streetlights, and a crowd gathered near the musician in order to better hear her.
It seemed a fitting setting to say goodbye to this country I’d dreamed of visiting for so long. My impressions of Japan have yet to settle in place; I’m still fresh to a new land, and I’m working through all I experienced there.
The next morning, I boarded a flight and departed for Manila. This is the first time I’ve up and decided to go somewhere on a whim, and I know next to nothing about this country. I’m going to enjoy spending the next few weeks exploring this land and its culture.
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