A Traveler's Unexpected Journal

 Susana Montal


October 18th, 3:00 AM, Churchill, Canada

I peer through the darkness at those around me, thinking: How
did I come to be here in this freezing gymnasium?  We're in the
arctic, in a snowstorm.  It's the middle of polar bear season. Who
are all these people snoring on their pallets a few feet away?  I
am waking up from a short nap, trying to orient myself to dreams
or reality.  I remember now.  It was only a few days ago that I
was strolling in the Louvre, meandering through the house of
Madame de Sevigny, wandering about the dark and mysterious
streets of Montmartre, and crossing the curved little bridge at
Giverny across a pool of faded water lilies.  But now, I am
grateful to have these memories.  Because I am still alive:
shivering, exhausted, depending on the kindness of strangers.
And outside, silent, watching, like prehistoric monoliths, are giant
white polar bears casting their shadows across the snow-covered
drifts.

October 17, 9:00 AM, Paris

I close my eyes and lean back into the soft upholstery of the
Peuguot.  The city falls away as we race towards the airport,
taking backroads to escape the eternal traffic jams on the
peripherique, the ring road which encircles Paris.  I think of other
places in the world I have experienced, places that still appear to
me in dreams, each with their own intensity and meaning.  The
dreams create their own metaphors at each location.  As St.
Augustine said, "The world is a book, and those who do not travel
read only a page." 

October 17, 12:30 PM, Somewhere over the Atlantic

I look up from my inflight magazine and study the positional
graph -- what a marvelous invention this is!  How can I fear the
massive, hurtling metal cylinder in which we sit, over which we as
passengers have no control, when it is there up on the screen,
like a charming toy that a child receives at Christmas.  It
reassures me .. . I love being able to see exactly where the plane
is, precisely how many feet up in the air we are, how many hours
we have flown and are yet to fly. It seems that all the routes
from Los Angeles to Europe fly in an arc over Greenland.  What
could the reason for this be?  Doesn't anyone fly directly from one
point to another anymore?  Perhaps it has to do with wanting to
make us realize that it is very cold in other parts of the world, the
revenge of an air traffic controller suffering through the winter
somewhere in Michigan.

October 17, 2:14 P.M., somewhere off the coast of Greenland

Water, water and more water.  The ocean beneath us - a piece of
gleaming blue infinity.  This blue I remember, from the house at
Giverny, Monet's favorite place to work.  The pond there was not
this color, but exquisite in its serenity and finitude.  Monet's love
of the water is seen in all his works, from the paintings he did
near the Seine to the Beach at Trouville.  His depiction of the
boardwalk as it narrows into the distance creates the perception
of a long coastline.  But here, I look out my window, touching the
glass.  Below me there is no opportunity for perspective - there is
nothing but water, sky and not a single cloud.

October 17, 4:00 P.M., Somewhere off the coast of Greenland

My thoughts of the sea, the memories of Monet's waterscapes
terminate abruptly as the flight crew rushes down the aisles at a
dead heat towards the back of the plane.  We all exchange
frightened glances as the pilot then races back towards the
cockpit.  Was the cockpit door closed?  Is someone else flying the
plane now?  Where are we going?  And why?  A train rushes
through my mind bringing with it a journey through
snow-covered mountains of the Black Forest.  I'm waiting to
disembark near a famous castle, struggling to understand the
announcements of the train's conductor.  Where will we be
disembarking?  I have no idea if I will miss my stop.  I look
around at the others, gripping the armrests.  A feeling of
helplessness like now, the train continuing on its way, the
flight with a destination suddenly unknown and unforeseen to any
of us.

October 17, 4:07 P.M., Somewhere off the coast of Greenland

We slow ... and we drop.  We are descending rapidly.  I've
forgotten how to breathe, and force myself to take in some air,
in, out.  We are still flying straight, dropping fast, slowing down
suddenly.  But there's no place to land.  Voices rise around me,
fearfully demanding explanations - the crew gives no information.
Their faces tell us more than words can - we are in danger.
Looking out the window on my left, I see plumes of liquid
shooting out from the wing.  So now we are jettisoning our fuel -
I know this means we are lightening the plane for an emergency
landing, but where?  The last time I looked at the positional map,
we were flying somewhere over the Atlantic - between Greenland
and Canada.

I watch my hands shaking as I take out the life jacket instructions
- why hadn't I paid more attention before?    I knew that my
hands were looking for something, anything to do, to touch some
cord, some sign, some button.  Now, these hands, my hands, are
holding other hands - will we kneel together, for a benediction,
with whatever moments we have left?  Every second is a
blessing, a precious gift. 

October 17, 4:40 PM, Somewhere over the Atlantic

We are flying much closer to the water.  I can see the choppy
water waiting below.  How cold will it be?  My hands fumble with
my hair, to bind it up in case I find myself in that choppy water,
swimming, helping others.  I watch as my hands remove my
earrings. But, really, why am I doing this?  How long would we
last in water that cold, assuming the plane did not break apart on
impact?  Too late for rational thinking about this - I decide to
prepare for landing.  Looking around quickly now, I try to see if
there is anyone near me who might need help exiting the plane.
I put on my gloves, reassuring some sitting close by who cannot
see out of my window, that we must be preparing to land
because we are dumping fuel from the wing. (Read as:  hope!)
But I see only fear in their eyes.  I have never seen or felt fear
like this around me.  But I feel strangely calm, as though all my
senses have been activated, filling me with a primordial instinct
to survive at any cost.

By now the pilot's voice is heard over the speakers - has it been
half an hour or more since he ran up the aisle?  He tells us that
we have been cleared to make an emergency landing in Northern
Canada.

October 17, 5:06 PM, Somewhere off the coast of Canada

Watching, watching, taking another breath and still only blue ...
then, slowly, beautifully, tendrils of white snaking into the sea.
Now a few evergreens are visible in the snow - we arc and
approach a tiny lane in the middle of nothing - is it a road or a
runway?  As we touch snow and ground, the landing is
breathtakingly smooth - I and everyone on the plane know that
the danger is past.  We look at each other in wonder and relief,
hardly believing our luck!  I want to get off the plane immediately
and feel the earth under me.  To pick up a handful of snow and
watch it sift through my fingers to the ground below.


October 17, 5:15 PM, Churchill, Canada

We applaud, we celebrate our arrival! All of us are speaking at
once, aware that we are so lucky.  Munching on brie and butter
sandwiches, we relax and wait till they find a way to get us all off
the plane. Outside my window I see a fire truck with a small
platform trying to manuever up to the emergency exit door.  The
stewardesses are smiling, excited, overwhelmed like the rest of
us.  Those of us who can translate the pilot's announcements for
the German and Spanish speakers on board.  But several hours
later, euphoria is replaced by exhaustion and frustration - we
can't leave the plane for at least six hours.  When a plane lands
unexpectedly in this new time of terrorist threats, much red tape
must be cleared before anyone can disembark.  Meanwhile, the
local emergency response team organizes to meet our arrival
with transportation, food and shelter at the closest town:
Churchill, population 1,000.

We are here, in the arctic region, where the northern lights are
visible, in the middle of polar bear season.  After eight hours, the
emergency chutes are inflated and we slide down them into the
snow.  I forget to put my knees up and come down too fast.  I
look up as I rocket down the chute, the people below looking
anxious and positioning themselves to soften my landing.  But I
hit the ground safely and quickly stand up to show I'm alright.  As
we wrap ourselves in thick woolen blankets, we see the busses
waiting for us.  They are from the local tour company that takes
tourists to see the polar bears nearby. 

Another passenger and I ask our tour driver to take us out to see
the bears now. But he assures us he will drive us out later, after
we have rested and had dinner.  He rushes over to tell a
desperate smoker to put out her cigarette, that there's no
smoking on the tarmac.  But she refuses.  After all, she had been
on the plane for over 12 hours by now.

October 18, 12:33 AM, Churchill, Canada

The conditions of travel have changed dramatically. Travel is no
longer imposed by exile, or great need.  Oedipus was forced to
take his journey alone, to wander as a stranger, with no family or
friends, save Antigone, for the rest of his life, scorned and
mistreated, left to beg for the mercy of hostile strangers.  But
there are no hostile strangers here. First world travellers who
have met with misfortune now have no need to beg.  Those of us
stranded here are offered food, hot drinks, hastily assembled
blankets and mattresses, whatever can be found to comfort and
sustain us in our predicament.  There is nothing to do but wait for
another 8 hours till a rescue plane can be found, equipped with a
retractable stairway, and the capability to fly in arctic conditions.
We are told that these are not as readily available as other
aircraft.  I wonder what it will be like?  I've flown through major
snowstorms before, and I remember how frightening they can be.
Circling over an airport in Kansas City for a long time, going up,
then down, again and again, with no visibility. The captain would
not explain why we were so close to the airport and could not
land.  The bar service was working overtime to calm the
passengers.
 
October 18, 3:47 AM, Churchill, Canada

During the night's long wait, I rest briefly on the gymnasium
floor, covering my head, cocooning, with a blanket to protect
myself.  It is very cold.  Mattresses are laid out everywhere, a
mosaic of old quilts and blankets.  A chorus of snores resounds in
the large space, somehow comforting.  After several hours, one
plane takes half of us away.  Six hours later, that same plane will
return to shuttle the rest of us to the comfort of a hotel in
Winnipeg, another two hours flight away.  I sleep and dream
again.  In this dream I am on another plane, circling the earth
again and again. I try to look out the window, but I can see
nothing.  Inside the plane it is snowing.  Suddenly I awake with a
start, but only because someone snored very loudly on the
mattress next to me.  I listen to his snores and realize I will not
be able to sleep any more.

October 18, 4:00 AM, Churchill, Canada

In darkness we make our way through the arctic tundra, towards
the landing strip outside of Churchill.  It is 4:00 AM, and I am
disappointed.  I still haven't yet seen a polar bear.  I watch intently
as we drive through white blankets of freshly fallen snow.  I see a
big lump out there in the drifts. I rub the icy bus window with the
back of my sleeve.  And there, for a moment, I look out at
something huge and white with dark hollows surrounding its eyes.

October 18, 8:36 AM, Winnipeg, Canada

At last the opportunity to lie, at the limits of exhaustion, in a soft
bed at the hotel.  There's only 3 hours to sleep before the flight
to Los Angeles.  I think again of all the people who have helped
us, beginning with the emergency rescue team, and of their long,
sleepless night following our arrival.  They worked through their
exhaustion to help us off the plane, and protect us from the
harshness of the climate there.  They prepared our dinner, and
found mattresses for us to rest upon after our ordeal.  They took
some of us out on tour busses in the early morning hours, in the
hopes of seeing more of the bears, roaming about in the
darkness, looking for food. The kindness of these strangers made
our experience much more comfortable.

I must sleep, I force myself to rest.  As my head touches the
pillow, I am lost in a dream.  I am diving into a pool of water,
soundless, dark and blue.  Swimming deeper and deeper, I
wonder how much longer I can hold my breath.  But I have no
need for air.  Through the depths I see something far away,
luminescent and beckoning.  I try to reach it, but it falls further
into a blue abyss.  At last I reach it, grasp it in my hand, and
heavier now, pull myself up through the water.  I reach the
surface and open my hand to see what I'm holding.  A pearl.  The
alarm wakes me.  I walk without fear to my next flight, waiting
on the runway for me.