A week ago, I left the crazy artist's community that I had called home for over a year and I got on an airplane. An airplane full of screaming babies, middle-aged women drinking vodka mixed with sprite zero, and horny teenagers making out right on top of me (I suggested that they take their little in-flight romance to the bathroom but they insisted on swapping saliva in the seats right next to me). I siphoned David Bowie into my ears through headphones, but not even Ziggy Stardust could distract me from the chaos surrounding me.
"This is Major Tom to Ground Control, I'm stepping through the door, and I'm floating in the most peculiar way..."
Some bratty kid kicks the back of my seat while the people next to me proceed to pass second base.
I think of my friends from the artist's community, of my old one-room apartment that was now empty, and of all the stuff I had sitting in boxes at my parents' house. I begin to second guess my choice to move out, but then I tell myself not to think about it. I am on an adventure.
The pilot announces that the plane is going to land. I grab a hold of my barf bag, just in case. Meanwhile, David Bowie continues to sing in my ears.
"Can you hear me Major Tom? CAN YOU HEAR ME MAJOR TOM?"
And in that moment, I felt like I was Major Tom. I was leaving Ground Control and blasting off on some vague personal mission. My destination? A place more foreign and strange than Outer Space...
A week later, here I am - updating my blog in The Marion County Library. And I have a suspicion that I am not only the sole hipster in this part of the country, but I am the only one who cares about recycling and reusable grocery bags.
Toto, I don't think we're in Portland anymore.
To Be Continued...