I boarded Lufthansa at SFO and took my aisle seat.  4 hours of sleep last nite and 4 emotionally draining performances on stage within the last 48 hours had me wondering who I am. (I had played an Iraqi interpreter in the Green Zone in George Packer’s Betrayed the last month and a half. I mumbled “Until this moment, I dream of America” over and over a few times and a little louder than I expected. These were the final words of the play.  I realized I’d miss my painfully evolved Iraqi accent 6 nights/wk, the wonderful and amazing cast I was a part of. This was it. My first regional theatre gig came to an end last nite with those words, and now I’m off to the Middl East to be an actual interpreter and quasi-actor for Tyler Macniven’s film.)

Within a few seconds of sitting, one of my worst nightmares. A giddy Iranian mother and daughter in full  chatter parade mode, gesturing, wailing arms, whispering, exclaiming, whispering, exclaiming. It was like an earthquake besides me.  And  it wasn’t just any random Iranians, it was the Iranian Jaja Gabor and her daughter. Then, as if she could read my mind,  a sigh of extreme deep unhapiness came from Jaja and suddenly: , ” Excuse me, dis is so kerowdid!! Oh my Gosh! So kerowdid.” A constipated expression of life threatening agony leaned over into my space, expecting, wanting a solution from me. “Um, I, uh, would you like the aisle seat?” I suggested.

“No, dis is so so kerowded. Can you take dis anader seat over der .”

I chimed in with farsi then and was planning to surrender gracefully when my father, who was sitting in a nearby aisle seat, rapidly removed his headphones: “whoa hey, you’re not giving up your aisle seat, are you?,” his eyes glaring with a lionish pride and encouragement, a nudge that we must never aquiesce to ultra-high maintenenance woman like Jaja. I moved anyway.  Because over 8 hours with this magnitude of chit-chatter would have me crying and foaming at the mouth.

I proceeded to stay awake for most of the flight, reading the rest of Dean Karnazes’ Confessions of An All Nite Runner, flipping through monologues I was memorizing, and wondering how long those two gossip queens (now within a fair distance) would continue to speak so loudly and wave their arms so frantically. Well, for most of the 8 hours. Unbelievable. Is this for real? In my numb state of exhaustion, all I could do was day dream adult size mosquitos in the distance with antennae that wrestled and postured at eachother;  except the antennae were neon bright and whenever they came in contact, it was like Darth Vaders wand making contact. This was no fun but I was already well invested in the intricate daydream so it haunted me the whole flight.

Landing in Germany never felt so rejuvenating.

40 degrees and raining in Frankfurt. An 8 hour layover. My father immediately jumped out of his seat with joy, literally hopping out of a nap and exclaimed,  “Naptime!”

I didn’t know what this exactly meant until I found myself barely keeping up with him as he ran off toward the Sheraton hotel conveniently located inside the airport. He booked a room for a 7 hour nap.

I don’t normally have such luxuriant layovers and I was trying hard to fend off comfort for the last week, in preparation for my 15-21 mile run daily in Iran. I have to admit, the Germans know how to soundproof windows well though. Overlooking an Autobahn, the hotel room is as silent as a Zen Buddhist temple.  I found myself in the room staring out the window as my father let out a giggle and hopped into one of the beds. It was drizzling and I wanted to run. More I needed to. I hadn’t trained for over 3 days due to theatre obligations and I couldn’t hop into the bed right now.  I had a country to run in a few days.

I thought about what I’d do without this noise-proof nap haven.

You see, I didn’t know I’d be travelling with my father. We were having lunch last week at Woodhouse Fish Company, a delectable spot of culinary wonders in SF, when, after several oyster shots and mega lobster rolls, he suddenly groaned, “Shit, I gotta get the hell outta here.”

“Gee, I thought you like this place,” I said. ” Well, finish up your salad and we’ll leave.”

“No, I mean this country.  I’m bored of work. When’re you going to Iran?”

“March 9th.”

“Ok, I’m coming with you.”

After a brief conversation, he agreed that he wouldn’t succumb to luxury on this trip and promised not to distract from the athletic visa mission, and would live by my vagabond rules. He was also excited to get this run finally launched, as he had speaking to the PEO cultural director over the last few month and had invested quite a bit of time on this project already.  “I’m fed up with this. I need to be out there with you and really make this happen.”

So he quickly entered Snoreland in our plush Frankfurt hotel room, and  I worried about my lack of training and gazed into the rain. I called the front desk and inquired about a gym. And what a gym it was a few floors below, overlooking the gracious German autobahn, replete with green and red apples. I made my way to the treadmill and ran 7.4 km to raging & mandatory German electronica, all the while overlooking the muted motion of cars and trucks below me. I daydreamed about my (junk) mailman days in Ireland and how I missed jogging with mail in my backpack, jumping stonewalls, and getting bit by dogs.  I searched deep within for any running inspiration I could find, planting seeds of hope and nostalgia that would hopefully emerge during the struggle of the run down the line.

I took a water break at 7.4km and ate a green apple. Then got back on to total 10.24 km.

2.5 hours to go here in rainy Frankfurt til we board. I need to find some dry clothes to wear for the flight.

Comments (0)

Name

Comment

smaller | bigger

Write the displayed characters

Add Comment