Thinking About
Everything Old is New Again
Stale airplane smell is gross and charming and it helps me remember myself
I am sitting on an airplane, typing.
This behavior is old, this habit familiar — in a good way. I quite like hurtling thought the sky while structuring thoughts on the page.
And yet I’m rusty.
This flight is my umpteenth, but also my first (in 16 months). The plane is crowded with masked passengers and despite what I imagined, empty of fanfare or other new protocols.
No one congratulated me, gave me a sticker, took my temperature, or nodded curtly as I handed them medical records at the gate. Instead, all the old things happened in all the old ways: boarding pass on flimsy paper, shoes in the bin, money evaporating in a mindless Hudson News purchase, roller bag ricocheting off aisle seat armrests.
And now here I am, tucked into my metal buckle and smelling that stale smell (it permeates the mask) that airplanes have perfected, feeling like everything old is new again.
When Covid’s grip was at its tightest, I found respite in naming what I missed most from the Before Times. Airplanes always topped the list, not because they’re divine places to be, but because I love flying.
Specifically, I love moving toward something I don’t yet know.
I’m rarely one to repeat vacations or try to manage the unknown by limiting my exposure. When I travel, I crave novelty and colorful disruption layered in with juicy comforts — morning coffee, long walks, fresh food. I adore living out of a tightly packed suitcase and relying far less on daily habit and far more on surges of curiosity.
But my love of flying isn’t just about getaways. There’s something to the ritual that tethers me to me.
I left home for college by plane. And the flying back and forth, from the East Coast to the Midwest, kept up over the years. After graduation, my flights ticked up in length and frequency. I moved out of the country once, and then again, years later returning “home” to brand new corners of the U.S. interspersed with continued stretches overseas.
I sometimes think I learned how to adult on airplanes, as others might on sports teams or in annual family gatherings. When I step on to a plane, my brain lights up in ways I recognize. My attention span lengthens and I discover room to think about projects and people I’ve been avoiding.
Today, when the stale smell hit me — the one I will forever associate with pretzels and blue pencil skirts — that magic brain space opened.It’s always with me, of course, and I’ve evolved other ways to access it. For now, though, I’m pleased my old catalyst is back. I’m pleased to be flying and no longer housebound. Most of all, I’m pleased to revisit the dual sensations of motion and growth as I cruise through space and time sipping tomato juice.
