I spoke to a man from California on a recent plane ride. First about tattoos and then about where they were from and then where we were from. When I gave him my simmered down shpeal on my moves between the pacific-north west and southwest. He inquired with more genuine emotion than I deserved as a stranger on the plane never to be seen or thought of again, how could I have said that I preferred humble New Mexico over infamous Portland?

I have a few phrases queued up. “Weather” to which he knodded. “Culture” to which he was silent. And “food” to which he was again surprised. His brief questioning indicated to me he had some experience with the PNW food scene. And he held the popular opinion that the dining available in places like Seattle or Portland were world class. And he, and the world, are correct. If you want excellent food, they assuredly have it.

I have many opinions on this subject but I summarized well to this So-Cal gentleman, “true. But the average place here is better than the average place there.” He didn’t agree but it gave him pause. And he found no argument. For I left no room for one as we prepared for descent.

As the plane’s nose dipped towards the little ABQ sunport, a few people opened their window’s to see the earth accelerate towards them. They allowed the evening’s setting sun to play warmly on the interior of the cabin.

In Oregon working night-shift, I saw more sunsets and sunups than ever before in my life. And yet, this one witnessed from a few thousand feet in the air surpassed them all combined. I think its that there is no water in the air here. Between me and the sun there is nothing but a few air molecules and space. It looks different. It feels different.

The horizon stretches longer. The stars extend beyond sight. The world races from your very feet in all directions. Above you is more. Somehow the dome of air overhead is grander. Filled with less and less and less. In Oregon I was never far from something. Here, everything is so far away. Is it a boring sense of cliche freedom? Probably not. More likely a reminder insignificance. A deep seeded fear of nothing.

How could I tell a stranger I missed this feeling? How could he ever understand. Sure I could say “I missed the green chile”. And maybe he’d get that small comfort. To tell him I missed the discomfort of an unforgiving sky. The lay of the land oppressive rather than impressive. How can I say that I missed the rare thunderstorm over the desert more than all the rains of Oregon?

Rather than perpetual grey skies, I can watch the infinite blue turn to golds and purples that would make an ancient roman blanch. Rather than expected drizzles, I can watch a storm head flow over the earth and crash, with thunder and lightning and true brimming rain drops, against the plain.

He would never understand, even with it shining in his eyes and on the heads of the seated people before him. Each lit like candles in paper bags. Was his home as much a weight on his back as mine is?