I really want to make sense of this...

Originally written 6/26/08

So I’m sitting here at the Amsterdam airport. Schiphol Airport, to be more exact. I think it kinda sounds like shithole, but this is one of the most modern airports I've ever been to. So maybe mis-misnomer? It’s been a long journey here, no doubt, but I’m going where I need to go to say the least. We’ll just start from the beginning, though.

This tale of sorts began with my mother telling me I was leaving on a Wednesday for my trip to Venice. Little did I know, I was supposed to leave Tuesday to arrive Wednesday in Philly to meet up with my gal pal Sara, and just fly direct to Venice from there. But, no such luck. I full on missed my Tuesday night flight, blissfully unaware.

So on Wednesday morning (it’s Thursday afternoon here in Amsterdam now, but as far as I’m concerned I’m still stuck on this Wednesday morning), I turned on my phone and was bombarded by voicemail after voicemail, text message after text message from Sara asking if I was okay, and more importantly the question, “where the hell are you David?”

And the good old narcissistic side in me said, “Ha! What a meaningless worry this is! I’m leaving tonight, Sara!” And then I finally checked out a document I should have much earlier in the week called a travel itinerary, from United Airlines. Boy was I wrong. And from there it was just a gay panic with just lots of shouting at myself and quite a bit of sobbing. I thought I was going to miss this trip entirely. How could I miss this trip?

So I called Sara and within seconds I was booked on another flight that would make it to Venice only hours after my original travel plans said I would. Of course, the sum of money required to do so was nothing to shake a stick at, and I have no idea how I’m going to produce this amount of money to cover my ass. Suffice it to say, here I am in Amsterdam, scheduled to take off in another two hours or so.

But why don’t we start with my last plane ride, from San Francisco to Amsterdam. Okay so just to put all of this into perspective, the flight left the Bay Area at around three pm. It arrived at 10:30AM in Amsterdam. I slept about an hour, shallowly, with children kicking me from behind (wonders never cease) and a rather large Scandinavian man next to me who had those “long dancers legs” but sans the dancer part. Eek. And I was pushed into that godawful window seat.

But the flight ended, and so did most of the sorrow associated with it. Can’t say I didn’t enjoy a Heine extra cold at the bar about an hour ago. And I can’t say I’m not enjoying stroopwafels as I type this whole thing out. But something just doesn’t feel right about all of this.

Forgetting a flight isn’t at all my forte. Forgetting anything isn’t really my forte, really. But I suppose there are distractions and misnformations and blindspots people simply can’t avoid, no matter how hard they try. I can’t just sit here and say this is all my mother’s fault, because it’s not. But I can’t say I wasn’t a little misled, or a little misinformed as to my date of departure.

I just hate what a gay panic I was brought into. I’ve been fighting myself as to who’s fault it was for hours now, and I think it’s finally time for me to just get to Venice, see the gal pal and just say fuck it until I return to the real world on July 7th. More job assignments are upcoming, more time still with the house to myself, and more recently, more time to spend with one of my most favorite distractions. It’s one of those vacations you’ll get to enjoy and return from, because maybe you left something (or someone?) at home you miss.