Delaware: Part One

This was written sometime yesterday, I'm not really sure when. My days, nights, hours, and life in general have all blurred together at this point:

Well, it is official. No matter how long and arduous parts of this journey have been and are going to be, one thing is certain: I am on an adventure. When I asked my dad yesterday while waiting for the plane whether this flying experience was particularly different from commercial flying (i.e. were there stewardesses, bathrooms etc.) he was pretty vague and non-conclusive (surprise, surprise) so I assumed the differences could not be very great. I was mistaken. At one point I jokingly asked him if our experience would be something akin to the final scene of “Hair” when they send George Berger (Treat Williams) off to Vietnam. I giggled at the thought of the 27 ordinary people sitting in the terminal with us wearing helmets, sitting on their haunches in a bare-bones plane anxiously sneaking glances out the windows for bits of jungle or tanks. It was nearer to the truth that I ever imagined.
You’re not allowed to take pictures of the outside of the plane, so that the airline number doesn’t get out for security reasons, but on the outside they’re pretty ordinary. C-17s, the type of plane we rode to Dover, look like commercial airplanes from the outside, except a little greyer, a little dingier, and with none of those “namby-pamby” drawings or company names painted on the side. No friendly looking Eskimos (which, incidentally, I actually thought were Abraham Lincolns for a disturbing amount of my life) or happy California-Bound Disney characters here. But you get inside the plane and it looks like they forgot to finish it. I wanted to go to one of the men in tan zippy-flying-suits and say, “excuse me sir, but it seems that someone failed to give this plane walls or a floor…” That’s not to say that the plane didn’t have walls or a floor, as it certainly would not be a plane but rather a flat plank of metal if that were the case, but there was no covering over any of the essential thing that make a plane run so the passenger can see everything. There are no rows or aisles of seats. The seats run on either wall of the plane, connected to the side and the closest thing I can think to liken them to, are not the plush airline seats I have experience before but rather, the jump seat in the back of a pick-up, but with less padding. This gave the plane a rickety feel…this was no frills and somehow it made me more afraid than I have ever been on a plane.
The lack of seats leaves a great amount of room in the center of the plane; you can see your baggage strapped down on near the front and back of the plane, which was nice. I could clearly see that my acoustic guitar was secured and not crashing to its death, untied and willy-nilly. In case anyone cared, so far Elsie, my guitar, has been unhurt and actually enjoying the experience (only two strings out of tune this morning!) It also gave us room to walk around, or even lie down on the strange, hard, cold, metal floor.
There was, however, one large obstruction to the pathways, which I actually lay against to read for a while. It was a Hum-v. Yes, a real life, monstrous Hum-V, whose tire hub I used as a headboard, was chained to the floor of our plane. When we hit what I can only assume is what standard turbulence feels like when there is no real shock absorber I was certain that this part-pseudo-bed, part killing-machine was going to crush me and the people around me against the wall and, subsequently, kill us. I was so afraid of this happening that I developed a plan for getting the two little girls next to me (of whom I had become fond due to their stuffed unicorn, Disney paraphernalia, Harry Potter books and the fact that I just like kids in general) onto the ground and out of harm’s way. Tough luck for everyone else I guess. Luckily, (and logically)that never happened and my heroics were never necessary.
The plane, unlike a commercial flight, was SUPER loud. Military-issue ear plugs and noise-blocking heavy duty headphones were still not enough to block out the sound of the propellers and rudders and whatever else makes a plane go. They did however reduce it to a lower humming and buzzing, which was definitely an improvement.
At one point in our flight, a man shouted at us, asking if there was a medic. We shouted back that neither of us were one. This was not, as you might think, a man urgently crying out as we responded with hysteria. That’s just how you have to talk when you’re on a C-17. I looked around to find the person in need, and saw a man cradling what looked from behind like a frail, sick child in his arms. I know what you’re thinking, and no, it was not Lord Voldemort being nursed to health on our plane, which was lucky because we had to check our wands with our baggage. It turned out to be to be a little old woman suffering from a Diabetic attack. Her family didn’t speak much English, and adding a language barrier to an already “shouty” atmosphere made it difficult to communicate with them as they gave her water, blankets, and food. The family told me there was nothing I could do to help. All I could do was feeling helpless and horrified. She sat down at the appropriate time and was escorted off the plane by the base medics before the rest of us, but she was walking on her own, which I took to be a good sign. It was truly a shaking experience for me and dredged up again from my consciousness my need to be able to help people. I hated doing nothing. I don’t think I could be a medic (and I definitely have not been taking the right educational route at all if I could) but I can’t ever forget that I need to be helping people.
Anyway, the plane landed at about 1am (EST) in Dover, Delaware. (HI! I’m in Delaware…[Wayne’s World anyone?]) but it took us an hour to get off because they couldn’t get the ramp down. From there we realized there wouldn’t be any flights until that afternoon and we hopped on a bus headed for the Air Force Inn. I sat there until 3 am, watching what I guess ended up being the end of “The Green Mile.” I’m going to have to trust the rest of the world when they say this movie is good. The only parts I saw (skip ahead if this will ruin something for you, although I think most everyone but me has seen this film) were an old man and old woman talking to a mouse, a brief shot of Tom Hanks, references to a “Green Mile” which must have been a metaphor I didn’t understand, and some death talks. This is probably a film, which, like most things, you should start from the beginning. It didn’t help that I had gone through two time zones, been on a plane for 6 hours and waited in the terminal for 5 hours before that. But, after a lot of tribulation the hotel finally found us a room. Hopefully this isn’t all boring you…sorry if it is. You can always skim ‘til you find something that seems interesting. I give you permission.
Today, we woke up after what was far too short of a night, got our stuff together and checked out of the hotel. My dad and I have never been to this base before and have no idea where anything is, so we decided to take a cab back to the terminal. But, apparently, cabs do not go on base. So as my dad frantically called every cab number the hotel could give him, I sat outside and played my guitar: little Bright Eyes, little R.E.M., little Rocky Votolato, always makes everyone feel a little better.
Pretty soon a nice old gentleman, a retired air force pilot we found out later, offered me and my ‘husband’ a ride to the terminal. This is the third time that this mistake has been made. I just want to wear a shirt that says “I’m not a trophy wife. I am 2 score and 2 years younger than this man because he is my father.” But that would probably be too wordy and take up too much room and give people even more of an excuse to look at my chest. But, a girl can dream. So I laughed politely, said I would fetch my father and ran into the hotel to get him. The ride was wonderful, not having to carry our luggage the few miles was really nice. Mundane details: I hadn’t eaten in forever, so I ventured out onto the Dover Air Force Base with a map by myself and located the Burger King and the BX. The BX, for those that don’t know, or PX if you’re Army, is like the military store for everything except groceries, including everything from Coach Purses to i-pods to diapers to alcohol. This one was very small, and I mostly used it for its cool air as it’s over 80 degrees here and I wore sweat pants for travelling.
On my way back, feeling very proud of myself for navigating through a strange place, using a map successfully, and entertaining myself for one of the five hours we had before the flight, I ran into a man while reaffirming my position on the map, who spoke with a thick, difficult-to-place accent, asking if I was traveling “Space-A.”
“Yes,” I replied confidently, “I’m heading back to the terminal!”
“Where are you going?” He probed.
“Rammstein- I mean- Rota, Spain.” I said, slipping up for a minute about which flight we were taking. It didn’t much matter to me as long as we ended up on the right continent.
He started laugh loudly in my face saying “1940!”
I corrected him, “No, sir, my flight leaves at 1440.”
“Pushed it back!” He laughed, “1940!”
I hurried away from this laughing menace cursing myself for not taking more time at the BX. Now I had another 5 hours to kill. Delightful. So here I am now. Waiting. Ah well. I’m coming Europe! Eventually.