Big Lone Star in the Sky

1:05 PM. Tuesday.
Portland International Airport

Eastbound and Up!

At Gate C-14, I stand in the departure lounge leaning against the pillar with my sole bag over my shoulder, looking out the big windows at the tail of brightly colored aircraft parked by the gate.

Everything so far this morning had gone according to script. After breakfast I had cleaned out my car and laid out my possessions, the ones I might want to take with me. I narrowed them down until they fit inside two small light backpacks.

I told Red that I hadn't traveled this light since the Summer of 1990, on my Great Round the World Trip, when I lived in Austin.

"My victory lap in the Cold War," I told her, using the Texas accent that she likes so much. On that trip the first leg was on Southwest as well, from Austin to Houston. All I carried then was a tiny shoulder bag, for a three-month circumnavigation of the globe.

"There's no feeling like traveling super-light," I told her. She agrees.

"Southwest is a Texas airline," I added, still using my drawl, and punching the name of the state like a true native would.

"Each plane is a like a little piece of Texas traveling around in the sky."

She thought that was very funny.

"You should kiss the plane when you get on it," she added.

She drove me to the airport in her Ford. It took only a few minutes on the freeway under a light drizzle.

When we get to the curb by the Departure doors, I say to her, "This is it? This the whole thing?" It's been so long since I've been here, and I can't believe how small the airport is. It's nice.

Leaning against the window in the departure lounge, I look across the tarmac to the line of low green jagged-tree hills populated by sporadic houses. Above the hills the sky is multiple shades of grey.

This is how I first saw Oregon, I think, smiling to myself. That purple and green carpet in the concourse---it's exactly the same after all these years.

The boarding starts. After a few minutes, it is my turn to board---I'm number 34 in the first group. My lucky Texas number, as it happens.

I walk down the ramp and approach the plane in line behind the other passengers. The flight attendants are standing inside the aircraft as we come up towards the door.

Just before I step onto the plane, I gently kiss the fingers of my right hand, and then I reach out to press them against the metal skin of the fuselage.