I’m never thrilled about flying but every time I arrive at my destination in one piece, I follow the herd toward baggage claim saying to myself, “And, so it begins.” 

This practice began thirteen years ago when I moved to Santa Fe, New Mexico from Atlanta, Georgia.  Atlanta had been home to me for a long time and I missed it.  I had left behind a large and well-loved network of friends and business associates and every time I flew back, I knew I was home when I saw the picture of the little girl at the 1996 Olympics extending her long, slender arms to welcome me back. She resided at the top of the long escalator that led to the luggage carousels, until they replaced her with some soulless BMW ad after a decade and a half.  “And, so it begins,” I would say out loud to myself when I saw her smile and outstretched appendages in anticipation of seeing people and places that would enrich my life for the next couple of weeks.

I don’t travel to Atlanta much anymore.  I used to go three or four times a year.  Now I go, maybe, once.  I go to other places now – in and out of the United States.  My family is scattered all over the world and I have friends in lots of cities.  It’s not just a matter of people anymore.  Now it’s also a matter of experiencing different cultures, different mountains, rivers with water in them, strangers.  I’m older now.  I see things differently.

“And, so it begins,” I muttered as we rose to deplane, our heads bent toward the aisle in anticipation of eventually getting off. 

There was no need to rush.  We moseyed off to baggage claim only to see a bunch of other people sitting around with chagrined looks on their faces.  We spoke to a guy in a red uniform (he looked like an airport employee but he could have been a marching bandleader) and he informed us that sometimes people waited all night to get their bags.  He directed our attention to a little light outside of the building. 

“When it’s red, nobody can go near the plane,” he said.  “When it’s yellow, it’s considered safe to get the bags.”  He then consulted his iPhone and added, “According to the radar, there are thunderstorms backed up to Ohio so we may be here for a while. Five hours, maybe.” 

He seemed excited about it.  We were not because it was already nighttime and we had a car to pick up and a hotel to get to. And it’s not like you can enjoy a relaxed meal when you don’t know when your bag is going to show up and get carted off by a stranger – because who looks at tags these days?

I went running off to secure the rental vehicle of our choice and called the hotel to let them know about our situation before returning to where Grant was pacing a short distance from our carry-ons.  We both ended up pacing.  It looked like we were going to break into the Virginia reel. After a couple of hours, the little red light turned yellow and people, including those in wheelchairs, got up to stare at the carousel.  It was like a trip to Lourdes.  And we were thrilled to see our bag cruising down the shoot. 

And, so it began.  We hauled ass to the rental car facility before everybody and his brother did the same thing and found our way to the hotel and managed to eat something before every restaurant in Pennsylvania shut down for the night.

A miracle occurred the next morning.  The sun came out and it remained out for the duration of our time there.  We took a two-hour drive into the rolling green countryside to get to the new home our grandson was now sharing with his soon-to-be bride, Coco, and occasionally with his soon-to-be in-laws who live five doors away with Coco’s two little sisters.  They live in one of the few remaining safe communities in the United States, where kids can play in the street and you can leave your doors open all night without getting killed in your sleep.  Guns are for hunting.  Period.

After spending some time at the house and walking around the neighborhood with the grandkids and Zach’s parents who had driven in from the DC area, we all took another hour’s drive to the beautiful golf resort where Zach and Coco would say their vows the next evening.  It was time for the rehearsal dinner.  It had been a while since I had participated in one of those and it really does require orchestration.  Thanks to the wedding coordinator, we all managed to get it straight without falling off a cliff onto the fairway.  Of course, I was still concerned about walking down the aisle in my wiggly high heels but you rise to the occasion when you have to.

Grant got to spend a little time with his son that night and I got to spend a little time with our grandson.  Speak of falling off cliffs.  All of our lives were on the verge of changing in subtle and not-so-subtle ways.  We were all happy about it.

And, then it continued.  The wedding day was upon us and it was time for some of us to drive another forty minutes to the hairdresser’s where a few of us came out looking like a cross between Ma Frickert and a Morman sister wife.  What the hell.  The copious bobby pins would come out the next day (although there may be a few dozen still buried in my hair).

The wedding was a wonderful, joyous affair with a great DJ that got us all dancing.  Who can’t dance to “Uptown Funk?” And we were most elated to see that Zach and Coco had the love and support of so many good people who made sure that their “And, so it begins” got off to such an amazing start.  Before we knew it, the party was over and the kids were off to Iceland for their honeymoon and we were off to, first, the Pittsburgh Zoo, and then, home. 

But the Pittsburgh Airport intervened once again.  We had a few hours to kill in which to munch on pierogis and kielbasa and dance in public with skeletons. Our own!  Say what?

Sounds more like “And, so it ends” rather than “And, so it begins,” doesn’t it?  And yet, every end leads to another beginning. 

We’re ready.