Flying over the clouds, literally, they seem like a concrete jungle. Except for the hint of deep purple, the pinkish hue that penetrates the barrier. Except for that. The colour is remarkable, seared into my memory. Or is it?
My attention is called away: “Please return to your seats. The captain has put the seatbelt light on.” The troubling turbulence has returned, un-hindered. We’ve hit a jet stream, and for a split second, nothing more than a glimmer in the eye of a smiling child, which is everything really, we ride the roller coaster and the baby next to me, so adorable with her pig tails and messy mane of black hair, cries out, whether in enjoyment or terror I can’t tell. A part of me believes she’ll grow up to love roller coasters, or extreme sports perhaps. Yes, that’s it. In 25 years I’ll be reading about Nazira Mair, world-champion bungee-jumper. Twenty-five jumps over 100 metres in 3 years. Yelling and crying all the way down every time. Delirious with joy.
There she goes again, crying, loudly, as the plane bucks down rather violently. I, on the other hand, feel calm, somewhere over the Atlantic. It’s a nice change.
é + par dessus l’Atlantique, dans la noirceur d’un Boeing en vol
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