In transit here at Tokyo-Narita. Potato chips all taste weird here. The barbecue chips have a hint of wasabe--a spicy kick that catches you off guard, if you're not careful.
Nine hour flight from Portland, and we still haven't lost any of the babies. I can't find a plug in out here, which bodes ill, indeed.
I'm a mess. In so many ways. But it turns out, that I'm kind of good at this whole shepherding-Grandma thing. We'll see how things go once we touch down in Manila.
Molded plastic, oceans of dark almond eyes, portable airplane fixtures, strange passports, curious enigmatic expressions on everyone's faces. Slack jaws, throw blankets, stale fruit. Sunlight glancing off jet engine rims, they look so inert through the thick portholes. Glimpses of limitless blue thirty thousand feet below. Loveliness, loveliness everywhere.
More soon, I promise you.