Arriving Provincetown

I  wish I could say that I when I travel I am perfectly happy cocooned in a cashmere shawl (no one should travel without one the smarter magazines tell us), absorbed in the penseés of some French philosopher or other, or in one of the more obscure novels of George Eliot. But I don’t own a cashmere shawl (and as often as not the cabin is overheated as it is underheated) and I have learnt by experience that I can only get through the experience of relocating myself across the globe thtough continuous low-level diversion, which is  why I fly Virgin:  for the on-board  entertainment system. For the almost seven hours it took us to get to Boston, I watched one thing after another, except for the odd hour or two inbetween during which I struggled to complete the Saturday Guardian crossword, always more of a challenge in the air (less oxygen?, less concentration?). So yesterday it was Coraline followed by Christian the Lion, then a BBC Horizon documentary on why some thin people can’t get fat, and I forget what else. Proust and Richard Dawkins, who made it into my hand luggage, went unread. And no matter how much I mean not to, yes I eat everything on offer, the chocolate pudding and the chcocolate brownie and the ice cream. I draw the line at alcohol, but mainly because I’ve been trying to drawn the line even when on the ground. In the past I have taken a more austere approach, but  it seems to make no difference – I still arrive feeling grubby -  so I’ve decided to go with it and exult in the grubbiness. Conclusion: I’m not sure it’s working. I just feel even grubbier.

The flight from Boston to Provincetown is how travel ought to be all the time, and presumably is for a fortunate few. There was only me and the pilot (Molly). Admittedly the plane only seats a maximum of nine passengers, but still, it was an unforgettable experience. Even I, a nervous flier, could enjoy a flight made under these ideal conditions.  The sky was so clear, and the light so pure, we appeared to be merely skimming the water. The sun was beginning to set, the waves sparkled, the air was as still as could be. The grubbiness of the translatlantic flight was quickly cast off and I could feel the energy of approaching Provincetown feeding me as if intravenously: and who is it say that it wasn’t feeding me even more directly: at that molecular interface where our neurons jiggle and dance with the molecules of the rest of the universe.

The tide is going out, the sky is the palest blue, streaked at the horizon with  bands of colourless clouds, the canvas of the sky seemingly left unpainted there, and the slightest breeze blows as if perfectly judged for optimum human comfort. In otherwords:  it is a perfect day, and I intend to do nothing other than be in it, which is not going to be difficult. Now, yesterday, four hours into the flight across the Atlantic, that’s when it is most apparent how difficult it is to live in the moment. Buddhists tell us that they learn how to suffer extremes of cold and heat not because they wish to suffer but because they mean to be comfortable in all conditions. Me, I’ll just try and avoid the extremes.