Photo by Carlos Aristizabal
The twin propellers sputtered as the aircraft prepared for takeoff.
I was sitting inside the cramped 10-seater at La Guardia Airport, watching delicate snowflakes coat the small wing outside. It was the final stretch of travel for my family, who had begun our annual winter holiday trading the tropical familiarity of Venezuela for a snowbound two weeks in Vermont.
The plane’s destination was Lebanon, New Hampshire. From there we’d make our way to the Green Mountain State in a rented car. My father, a Jerusalemite, laughed in his characteristic jovial manner, regaling to no one in particular how stunned his sisters had been upon learning he was taking his young family to Lebanon. After all, the year was 1983, and tensions between Lebanon and Israel were particularly heightened.
“Not Lebanon, the country!” he shouted towards the pilots, who were an arm’s length away and busy doing their pre-flight check. “New Hampshire…next to Vermont!” He’d laugh again, reliving with glee the shock his comment incurred.
I laughed with him, not because I found it particularly funny (after all, we had been doing this trip since I could remember, so I had heard this story more than once), but because there was something about my father’s zeal, the feisty nature in which he told the tale, that made it irresistible not to join in.
Mom focused fervently on The New York Times crossword puzzle, while my two older sisters waited for the plane to begin its journey down the tarmac.
As the plane rumbled forth, I inched my body forward, fighting physics and my seatbelt for a direct view of the runway, framed by the compact cockpit outfitted with switches and buttons blinking to life. Unlike one of my sisters who felt ill at ease in small aircrafts, I adored these flights. Every shake, shudder and rattle (and there were many) made me feel more like a bird inflight.
The plane made its spirited departure and was soon gliding over a glorious winter landscape. Barren trees, frozen streams and fields covered in snow soon became the narrative as we left the urban sprawl of New York City behind. Already a world’s difference from the lush, verdant landscape December in Venezuela holds, I anticipated with excitement two weeks full of hot cocoa, sledding and skiing down icy bunny slopes.
I took my eyes off the cockpit for a moment to watch my family: my mother had lowered the paper and gazed out her window. below. Born and raised in Pennsylvania, the snowy view still captured her heart. My father and sisters were also absorbed in the view — all storytelling and anxieties placed on a momentary pause while they enjoyed the beauty below.
We landed and were greeted by a sign almost as big as the airport itself. “Welcome to Lebanon,” it read, to which we all gave a simultaneous chuckle. Had it been 2022, we would have surely taken a selfie. Instead, we grabbed our luggage and headed for the rental car, on step closer to our winter fun.
Happy Reading,
Alona Abbady Martinez
alona@bocaratonobserver.com