Flight Plan

I hate packing, arriving early to the terminal, the taking of the shoes off at the security check point, the large sweaty men who inevitably ends up sitting next to me in the plane. But looking out that window at my city below (and of any cities I end up flying over), that makes me love flying. Granted, one particular thrill for me is seeing the Imperial House outside the right hand side of the plane as we come coasting into the airport. I look and wave to my neighbors knowing full well they can’t see me in this tin can, but it is a fun ritual just the same. This is always my favorite part of flying back home. And this is where it becomes a tale from the Impy.

The Imperial tower just happens to be the southern most highrise on the flight path into our airport. The beauty of it is nobody can ever build infront of us and block our ridiculous view of the city, the Coronado Islands, or Mexico. The flight path is an invisable shield that keeps us from melding with the downtown skyline. A little corridor of noisy solitude. There is a bit of noise from the planes as they come in for landing…But nothing you don’t get accustomed too. After eight years here I know the planes by sound. I can tell you whether it is a Southwest Airliner or the Fedex plane just by the sound and time of day. I don’t know if that is cool or sad, it just happens to be a fact.

I never knew how much the noise of the planes meant to me until they stopped one day...September 11th, 2001. I had already had a sense of forboding days before it all happened. I come from a family of women who can see things coming. I knew this time it would be big, but even my premonitions could not prepare me for what I woke up to that morning. Then it happened.

The towers fell and the planes stopped. All flights were grounded. Like everyone else, I wept in the initial hours of the horror, and for many days to come. That night, Phil and I managed to pull ourselves away from the constant coverage and sat out on his ninth floor balcony that overlooked the flight path. The silence was deafening. Tears were shed some more.

The country’s mood surrged from shock and horror, to anger, to new found patriotism that at times seemed misguided. Eventualy the FAA annoucended that the groundings had been lifted and nothing seemed more patriotic to us than to grab a six pack and sit on his balcony cheering each and every flight that came in. Granted the beer was Mexican and it had limes in it, but patriotic just the same. We sat out there for hours and every plane that passed by seeemed like another victory for us. Other neighbors sat on their south facing balconies, presumably enjoying the same victories. I had always loved this view of the planes, but the noise I had once complained about was now another strange yet treasured part of living at the Imperial House.