Philadelphia

Flying low, by bridges. Over a river port: tugs, warships (grey), barges. Landing in Philadelphia, it's clear it's a real city.

Twenty-seven CRTs display arriving, departing flights. The airport shops probably do more business than the gross retail of the City of Rochester.

A coursing flow of Humanity boards the plane, U.S. Airways flight eleven: Madrid to Los Angeles, via Philadelphia. Party of three in front of me, speaking Russian. North-african woman in wheelchair follows. Airbus 321, seat 10F.

Five brilliant stars light up the glide slope, illuminate the ethereal highway in the sky. I refuse beverages (they don't recycle.) The plane "tops off" with another three thousand pounds of kerosene, "just in case." Ten planes land.

Los Angeles

Back in California now. I don't think I realized my homesickness until my face was pressed against the glass and I was mentally labelling the interstate highways glittering on the desert floor below.

Los Angeles is huge. Of course I knew, but flying into LAX from the East, I remember. It's amazing how the city looks like microchips and circuitboards from the sky, how much the dark pools of mountains look like water in the night.

I can't shake the feeling that I need to change my New York money for California currency; it feels like a foreign country. Palm trees. Sixty one degrees fahrenheit. Late night dinner at In-N-Out. California license plates on rust-free cars. An hour drive home over wide, fast roads.

terrifying photograph