While my fellow teachers in America sleep in and make food, we spend Thanksgiving in Germany at school, celebrating even on a school day. Some classes have snacks. Mine have a creative writing assignment, a letter of thanks to an object, abstraction or entity that represents what they’re thankful for. This year, I’m thankful to be going home to Seattle for Christmas, for the first time in three years.
28 November 2013
Dear Lufthansa Flight,
We’ve met before. It was by accident, when I was younger but more tired, in June of 2008. I was running away from a difficult year of teaching, a year when I had 190 students for a while, students who often missed, but when they did they lit assignments on fire, wore headphones in class, and called me names when I asked them to take off their hoods. Though I loved my school, and even my students, it was a rough year.
And then there you were, a magically nonstop flight to Frankfurt, 11 hours of European-airline delight. No layover in London or Amsterdam or, heaven forbid, Atlanta or Philadelphia. No long domestic airline, forgetting to feed me and yelling about overhead bins in a language I can understand. It’s a long flight, yes, but by the time I got to Frankfurt that summer day I felt rested, awake, and far from home. Good news, then.
Now I’m not going between Seattle and Germany just for fun, for a summer-vacation fling. This is my life, and you make it better, Lufthansa Flight. I’ve tried many ways of getting home. Multiple layovers in Chicago and London. Stranded for three days in the snow in Basel. A cheap knockoff of this flight, operated by an airline, Condor, that I’d never heard of, and hope to never hear of again. None of them were good, because none of them were you. I live only three hours from Frankfurt, so now you’re not the best link in the chain; you make the way home a one-link chain.
Seattle isn’t a big deal, I admit, even though we pretend to be. Why on earth do we have a direct flight to anywhere in Europe but London or Paris? I don’t know, but I’m not complaining. Because now you’re my ideal, Lufthansa Flight. Three hours on the train is a small price to pay for a direct flight home. At Christmas. To get married! You are the prince of flights. Let’s be friends forever. Or at least while I’m living in Germany.