Traveler

clack. clack. clack. New Jersey rolls by in the distance, the urban sprawl of Newark and Seacaucus giving way to the wider fields past Elizabeth, onwards to Metuchen and New Brunswick, until, at last, in the fields near Princeton, the Garden State resembles its sublime moniker.

Or, all the same, as I fly down 95 after a detour by my home, across the George Washington Bridge, the radio playing, left for this connection, right for the other, through the turnpike and into the express lane.

I've traveled a lot lately, sometimes for fun, sometimes for work. Though my office is in New York City, my company has another office in East Windsor, New Jersey, closer to Trenton. My boss lives in Pennsylvania, as does a former colleague. We have a huge project on hand, and the Windsor office has become the central command post in our campaign.

A couple of weeks ago, I flew to Tulsa for my brother's wedding, departing out of Newark, the smoking steel towers of the region giving way quickly to fields and streams before we climbed so high that we might have been anywhere.

Before that, I went with some friends to a paddlesport expo, driving through the Holland Tunnel, the air blowers of which form one of the corners of our kayaking area. I've driven under, and paddled over, the same spot in the river, and that seemed kind of surreal to me.

While I'm at it, every day I walk three blocks up a hill to take and escalator nearly as far down, to board a subway that whisks me to work, in a building that, curiously, is built immediately above the train station that would take me to New Jersey.

I applied for a job out there, and almost took it, before deciding my current job wasn't so bad, and I wasn't prepared to leave the city.

I wrote some years ago that I feel at home in a terminal; there are signs, there is order, there are goals and destinations, rest stops and a feeling of motion, sometimes paused. I'll say that is my life, though I have carved out a home, and the stability I crave. I have a home base, but I am an interloper, seeing all these places, from all these angles.

The wind whips through the fields. I've seen the same marshes around Seacaucus in spring, summer, winter, fall, in howling rain and driven snow, in sunshine and in darkness. Past Newark, where all the inexperienced travelers que because they think it's the airport, then past the airport, and onwards, away from sprawl, to suburbia, to exurbia, and eventually to the municipal haven of New Brunswick.

How much space does one man need? In the end, not a lot, at least not all at once. But to see it, experience it, traverse it all, there can never be too much.

Fox in London

For some reason, the memory of seeing a fox in London comes to mind.

It sounds like such an image, an analogy, a metaphor: a fox in London. Yet, it was so simple. I was visiting a friend who moved there for work, and on the morning of my departure, as I trundled out my suitcase, across the street I saw a flash of red, and realized the strange squirrel-dog was, in fact, a fox. It was like a Genesis album come to life.

Update: apparently I'm not alone.

Observation Deck

Notes from some recent travel over the Thanksgiving holidays:

Dear airline: changing my non-stop 4-hour direct flight into a three-legged route lasting over eight hours is totally not cool.

The express security lane at most airports is improperly utilized. Most people will opt out of the lane because they travel so infrequently that they assume they are not "expert" travelers. They give you the criteria for expert travel on the poster. The result is that no one uses the lane, and when the regular lane backs up, the TSA folks start routing everyone into the empty expert lane, effectively negating the purpose of the expert travel lane.

I finally experienced one of the cuisinart-style full body scanners, in Tulsa of all places - there was no such scanner on my outbound from Newark. They are no big deal. What is odd is that apparently, my double-timed trouser waist appeared as a belt, so I got a light putdown anyway.

My biggest complaints about how ridiculous airport security has become are based on what's already transpired. I normally carry a laptop bag, a purse, and a carry-on bag. In the winter, I have a coat. To pass through security I need no fewer than three trays, and sometimes more depending on the agent: laptop, shoes and coat, laptop bag and purse. If I'm lucky, my carry-on liquids can share a ride with my purse. The degree to which I have to completely disassemble my ensemble is ridiculous, especially if you multiply it out over the thousands of other travelers every day. At some point, we'll all be shipping our luggage priority mail and wearing sweatsuits and Crocs, modern-day monks with no real possessions.

The TSA needs to be consistent on whether or not we need our boarding passes out to pass through the security checkpoint.

My main complaints about security are not the security level required, it's that it is implemented so badly.

Jacksonvile Airport: you're supposed to put sinks in the bathroom. You know, for washing hands. It's all the rage at other airports.

Music for Shopping

Among the more unusual musical encounters I had while abroad, two from a Sephora in Prague stand out:

1) "YMCA" sung in a dreamy bossa nova by a wispy female.

2) "Barbie Girl", (a song we studied in my law class, I should add), sung by a heartbeaking male crooner, ala John Mayer.

Both gender-transposed songs, I should add.

Back in the US

I've been back about a day. I actually went to work (early, at 6 AM) yesterday and left early (around 4 PM).

In the evening, I felt tired. Apparently, when I thought my body was telling me to take a nap, it really meant "sleep for eight hours".

Deutschland

In Germany. More later. Otherwise I will be late to class.

A haunted monastery, class trip to the Euopean Central Bank, a pub crawl, schnitzel in a cellar, new friends.