the d-d-d-d-d-d-departure

Didn’t bring a book, so guess I’ll start writing… that’s one good way to pass the time. Thankfully the Philadelphia International Airport spared travelers from the incessant 24 hour media cycle coverage of the Malaysia Airlines crash on these terminal TVs.

The obligatory airport terminal photo. My compliments to the Sky Chefs.

Nobody wants to view a constant stream of images depicting the smoldering wreckage of a civilian passenger airbus, allegedly shot down over Eastern Ukraine by pro-Russian militants with a BUK missile provided by Putin’s military, indefinitely perpetuating the separatist stronghold in Donetsk and Luhansk. Especially not before boarding a plane. Bound for Ukraine.

I sure picked a fine time to make the all-important journey to the homeland, до Батьківщини, to witness the source of half of my origin. As I am fond of telling people, the other half is mutt. Ironically, I am traveling to Ukraine to discover my roots, but today I weep because I am leaving my home. The United States is my home, and this all became very apparent in the 72 hours prior to my departure.

This is what I told J in the car as he drove me to Philly International: I’m so sad I am leaving my home. The Sunday afternoon sky was slate and expressionless. A heavy silence penetrated the hum of the AC, which was cranked up to 4 in order to cool down the entirety of that Subaru Forester.

I wept and alternately cracked jokes, which is one of my favorite mechanisms for deferring infinite sadness. “Who knew that I’d be such a baby about this,” I quipped, forcing a smile. J cracked a smile too, but we squeezed each-others’ hands extra tight while we sped down 95 to the inevitable departure.

We’ve done that since, like, our second date. Hold hands while driving, I mean. Back then, in those days (‘08-ish), we seemed to get stuck in traffic any time we drove somewhere on a date. On one of the first dates, we drove to the Mercer Museum in Doylestown, PA. We barely knew each other then, and he asked me to choose the destination. And, of course we sat in nearly two hours of traffic on the way there.

(Sidebar: Guys never want to make these decisions! Ladies, am I right?! I think that they think that they might choose the “wrong” destination, and we women will be disappointed which will cause them to feel badly, and so they try to avoid the situation by asking us to choose a destination/movie/restaurant...but all we want is for them to make a plan so we don’t have to think about it! We think about things all the time! Read: worry. I, for one, am always thinkin'. It’s exhausting!)

Anyway, I knew only a few objective facts about Jason Ristics at this point in time: He was 26 (woo, 20s!), he had a daughter named Hannah but things didn’t work out with Hannah’s mom and he was moving back to Philly, he studied Anthropology at Temple, and his friends called him ‘Jesus.’ Oh, and he had the biggest, most aggressively expressive blue eyes I have ever seen in my whole life! (Okay, that last statement is not objective in the least…) I could gaze into those baby blues for days back then, before life got so busy and complicated. Blue-eyed Geminis get me every time.

>> I just realized, J hid his eyes behind pitch black Ray Bans the whole ride to the airport. I wonder, was this to conceal sadness, or to alleviate the Atlantic City Bachelor Party hangover? Hmmmmmmm>>

Getting back to that second date destination: I figured Anthropology ← → Mercer Museum. The Mercer Museum was built to house the collection of historian and archaeologist Henry Mercer in the early 20th century. His mission was to collect, catalogue, and preserve pre-industrial tools and farming equipment which was being rapidly replaced by the implements of the Industrial Revolution. I mean, this guy amassed shit-tons of this stuff. The museum is a stone castle and is filled to the rafters with hundred year old sickles, plows, billows… weird lawn ornaments that would be considered racially-insensitive these days, kitschy artwork. It's like being inside a turn of the century schizophrenic's brain.

Rohi's house? Naw, it's the Mercer Museum, fool!

Returning home from our date, we took 95 rather than 76, and again we hit traffic. We were by the Bridge Street exit of 95, smelling Bridesburg, the sun was setting, it was Indian Summer. Bob Dylan crooned Forever Young. A warm sensation the color of descending sun rays washed over my body, and my skin prickled with the goosebumps you get when you feel the truth. That, to the best of my recollection, is the first time we ever held hands in the car. This particular car ride to the airport, however, I squeezed his index and middle fingers desperately, causing both of our hands to become clammy with nervous anticipation.