Landing in England on September 25, 2010

The little plane on the television in front of me of me scoots across the screen pixel by pixel as the minutes in the corner count down. “Almost there!” I whisper as the plane nears the island labeled ENGLAND. Beside me the first gray of morning light begins to color the glass, and pressing my nose against its coldness, I look out.

I did not pack for this.

Frozen ocean spreads beneath me, cracked and windswept. It must be sixty feet frozen through and packed with fifty winters of snow. We are not supposed to be this close to the Arctic. Where are we going? Why are we off course? “28 Minutes Until Landing” flickers in the corner of the screen as the little plane nudges the island. It is broken. The screen was only programmed. We’re lost. We’re never going to…

I gasp. What I thought was frozen ocean drops away, and hundreds of feet below silver water crashes against an emerald coast. Pink morning rays turn the tips of the waves from silver to molten gold, and soon green countryside quilted by wobbly hedges sweeps below. Eeeeeee!!! I squeal like a piglet with my nose turned up against the fogging glass. “Isn’t this so exciting!” I screech, turning to the stranger beside me just waking up. She looks at me with startled eyes. I turn back to the window and press my face against the glass again. Eeeee!!! I continue squealing under my breath.

Harry Potter, Pride and Prejudice, The Importance of Being Ernest, and every English movie I have ever seen unrolls its film beneath me. Tiny brick houses, completely identical, and tightly built together appear. There is 4 Privet Drive! A grand house overlooking vast grounds passes beneath, and I whisper, “Pemberley.” The green countryside continues, and I wait for Jack’s Manor House to appear.

Flying into the sunrise, I watch the colors change from pink to red to orange to gold and then, finally, to a bright, clean, new blue.

I pull out my camera and begin snapping pictures like I am making an aerial flipbook of England, all the while intermittently turning to the woman next to me to shriek, “Isn’t this exciting!” She just nods, eyes wide.

My finger continues snapping through the descent, landing, and does not stop until the plane attaches to the terminal. The moment the plane attaches, as if on cue, every person inside begins pulling scarves, sweaters, and jackets out of literally nowhere. Reaching into purses and overheads and seat pockets, winter wear overtakes the plane like an inventory turn around at Dillards. “I missed something here,” I think to myself, looking down at my Chacos, summer skirt, and short sleeves, remembering the weather report promising 70 degrees Fahrenheit next to a picture of a cartoon sun. Turning to look out the window, I see the ground crew wearing thick coats, gloves, and hats. All I can think is, “This cannot be good.”