You're leaving me -- Boston, MA

I'm writing from the Thinking Cup Cafe in Downtown Boston. My hazelnut latte with daily house made syrup rests on a small table covered in newspaper about astronauts landing on the moon decades ago, foam heart dissolving into my sips. I've been in Boston less than 24 hours, and I'm already noticing a newspaper thing. Perhaps it's because the first newspaper in America, Publick Occurrences, was published here in 1690. The publisher was arrested and all copies were destroyed, but still.

They did it first. The newspaper thing.

More and more customers burst in, escaping the frigid Boston morning. I'm sitting next to the door, and my legs prickle under my leggings as the cold brushes against them every time the door is flung open. But I remain where I am because across the street is a park. And I sit at a window where I can see the park. Trees are skeletal, grass is a sickly greenish brown and there's a Greek looking pillared gazebo looking slightly out of place. A runner in bright yellow. A biker in fluorescent green.

Hands stuffed into coat pockets.

Arms glued to sides.

Chins tucked into necks.

Young people walking along with backpacks. Middle-aged people hurrying along with briefcases. Old people shuffling along with bent shoulders and canes.

Maybe too many backpacks and briefcases... 

This is my first morning in Boston, and while the skyscrapers and busy streets make this small-town girl cringe, the diversity brings to life my curiosity and wonder in a way that makes my heart cry to be on the road again. I was served lamb kebab at a Lebanese restaurant last night wherein my server was actually probably from Lebanon. I overhear French in the elevator of my hotel. I see skin colors of every variety (usually just the face. The rest is stuffed into hats and pockets and collars) and coffee shop chains I haven't seen since London.

I woke at four am yesterday to finish preparations for this short East Coast jaunt before my yoga class at six thirty. And before you go and feel sorry for me in regards to this ungodly hour, understand that I always wake up at four am. It's my most creative time. It's the magical hour that's neither night (o'dark thirty) or day. It's limbo land. It's dreamlike. According to Tom Stafford, "An interesting aspect of the dream world: the creation of connections between things that didn't seem connected before. When you think about it, this isn't too unlike a description of what creative people do in their work -- connecting ideas and concepts that nobody thought to connect before in a way that appears to make sense."

Four am is my hour for connections. 

But I didn't write yesterday morning. Instead, I took a luxuriously long shower. In anticipation of the many hours I'd have to sit with myself on multiple planes.

Showers are also a limbo land for me where connections are made... showers... cafes... long journeys... four am... 

I finished packing my two carry-on bags and then drove to CMU to lead my forty-five minute Yoga Vinyasa routine. Something I do three times a week, for the pleasure of sharing a practice and for keeping my cueing skills honed. I certainly don't do it for money, as the school pays me a grand total of twelve dollars a class for my effort. Sometimes it's hard for me to detach my worth or skill as a yoga instructor from the money I make whilst instructing.

I'm worth so little? 

I've been guiding yoga since 2011. And I still can't make more than twelve dollars a class and even have to hold classes on a donation basis just so a few people will/can show.

My classes must be pretty awful. 

And while I know this isn't true, it's still a fight to believe it isn't true. Especially whilst living in a culture wherein much of one's worth is defined by one's paycheck. This is one of the reasons I chose to not give away massages during my massage schooling.

a) my school is costing me three thousand dollars. That. Is no small chunk of change to someone like me.
b) I want to feel like my work is valuable.

With yoga, I try to find my worth as a teacher not in my paycheck, but in the students who keep coming back. Who, instead of giving money, consistently give a part of their day to share a practice. There are five or six people at the university whose faces I see at nearly every class, and this encourages me to believe that what I share has value.

After closing my class and driving home, I burst into The Loft (the name Boy and I have for the apartment we share with two other flatmates) at 7:30, scarfed a syrupy breakfast and grabbed my bags. I clamored into the Geo and Boy sped off to Grand Junction's airport. Playfully, melancholily, we spent the short journey arguing about who was leaving whom.

"You're leaving me..." I mourned as Boy turned into the airport parking lot.

"No, you're leaving ME," Boy seemed bewildered. "There's no WAY you can turn it like that."

"You're leaving me. You're dropping me off at the airport, not coming to Boston. Leaving me."

"Aimee," Boy said rather firmly. "We live here."

"I don't care."

My flight from Grand Junction to Denver was on time. No happening of consequence. However, when I arrived in DIA, I decided to do something radically different.

I enjoyed it.

If you've read even a small portion of my writing, you'll probably know that

I
      Hate
               Airports.

They stress me out. So much that I usually end up with a stress headache. Well, part of the headache is due to stress, part is due to severe dehydration. I hardly drink a drop on days I fly because I'm terrified that I'll have to pee when the "fasten seatbelt" light is on.

When I'm afraid of something, I usually just put myself into a position wherein I have no choice but to do that thing I'm afraid of all the time (minus the whole drinking and flying thing. There is nothing in this world quite so frightening as having to pee and not being able to, and this fear is currently well beyond my edge). So you'd think that after five years of being in and out of airports, I'd be okay with them.

But I'm not. Because whenever I enter an airport, I walk/run to my gate in a panic of OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD, WHAT IF I CAN'T FIND MY GATE AND THE PLANE LEAVES WITHOUT ME?

I find my gate (probably ten minutes after commencing my search) and then camp in a position with excellent line of sight of my gate's screen. So that every time I get nervous about whether or not I'm at the right gate, I can look at my ticket, read "United, flight 714," look at the screen, read "United, flight 714," and then feel the stress headache relax some. Until the scenario plays out again fifteen minutes later.

So although I've practiced being in airports, I've never practiced enjoying them.

Well, that's stupid. I've spent the last five years getting better at hating airports. Awesome. And I'm only realizing this NOW? Jesus... 

So instead of walking directly to my gate and camping out for two hours, looking at the screen approximately eight times, I went for a walk. I window shopped. I went to a place with a view, bought a chai latte and people watched.

I strolled to my gate fifteen minutes before boarding.

I looked at the screen once.

That... was actually almost pleasant. 

And for the first time in my experience as a frequent flyer, the flight itself was worse than the airport. Not because of babies or bad movies or chairs stuck in cruel and unusual upright positions -- because of the turbulence.

It's a terribly unnerving thing, glancing out the window of your plane and seeing the wings shaking as if they were made of pliable plastic. The shuddering became so violent at one point that I nearly vomited. I felt nauseous and on-edge for the entire flight.

I landed in Boston just before six pm. I immediately texted my coworker to ask how she was doing and how she managed to get from the airport to the hotel.

Aimee
Did you use the metro? 

Coworker
No, I took a taxi. Because I could follow those directions. 

Aimee
Haha. Okay. Which would you rather I do?  

Coworker
Whatever you think is best. The taxi was a rip off. 

Aimee
I'll try my luck at the metro. It'll be good for me. ;) 

And it was good for me. It was my first experience using a metro in a country wherein I speak the language. And you know what? Being able to communicate my degree of "lost" felt freaking awesome.

"Excuse me," I called to a lady at the metro station, "Can you help me? I'm new here and very confused."

"Excuse me," I called to a cute couple after I'd disembarked. "I know where I am and where I need to go, but directions are hard for me. Can you help?"

"Excuse me -- "

"Excuse me -- "

"Excuse me -- "

And after many excuse mes and many kind strangers, I found my way to the Omni Parker House.

"My name is Aimee, here's my ID. I should already be checked in," I told the dapper fellow at the front desk.

And here I am. Ready for my first grownup, per diem, paid trip. I still don't know quite how to feel about this... 

But I sure wish Boy was here to not know what to feel about it with me. Oof. I know it's healthy for couples to have solo adventures, and I am 207 percent in favor of epic solo adventuring, but... we still haven't had enough adventures together for me to want them alone. 

Doesn't matter who left whom, Boy.

I just want you to be here.