I woke up one morning in New Jersey and there was a candle in my french toast. There were beloved friendly faces and a golden retriever and piles of delicious, crispy American bacon.
An hour later, the American check-in attendant wished me happy birthday when she swiped my passport and joked that I should get an upgrade. “Any chance, really?” She said it couldn’t hurt to mention it at the gate. It did hurt, though. Because I mentioned it, and the guy, who was Japanese, said, “Uh huh, so?” and then I hated him and his country for the whole 14 hours that I was crammed into seat 44L with endless snow below and screaming toddlers to the left and a blaring search and destroy video game to the front. And a flight attendant who thought just long enough before saying "no" that I suspect she did in fact have ear plugs at her disposal, she just wasn't giving them out.
I tore out the crossword puzzle from the Times I’d picked up at the airport. Granted, it was a Friday, but it felt like it was written in another language. My brain was as thick as my fingers. No fun. The entertainment system on the way out had been outstanding. Four hundred videos and TV shows on touch-screen demand, recent releases and classics. Spoiled for choice, I saved a few good ones for the way back. No dice; they had pulled the old switcheroo. Six grainy channels of obscure movies running on stubborn, unannounced loops and a balky remote control.
By chance, I had a gift to open. Wrapped in brown paper and addressed long ago, something that had never made it to the post office. It even had a card tucked inside, perfecting the illusion that it was always meant to a birthday present. Already knowing that it was When You are Engulfed in Flames only made it more fun to open. I read a little. I finished the vampire noir I'd gotten for Christmas. I half-snoozed and woke up sore and cricked everywhere with bleeding eyes and numb feet and fat fingers and I was sure, despite the blinding ice fields outside, that we must be getting very close. I finally allowed a peek at the flight monitor, hoping to be pleasantly surprised.
Still ten hours to go.
A microwaved burger in a distended plastic bag. Hours later, crunchy melon and a sulfurous omelet. A cold roll and frozen block of margarine. Hot water refills of the tall rooibos tea I'd picked up at the gate kept me alive.
Window shades opened at last to the sun we’d been drafting for 14 hours.
Somewhere over the Pacific, the longest birthday of my life ended, erased by the international date line. When we landed, it was already well into the next day.
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