The expected chill greeted me, almost as if it was smiling, slyly, with sinister teeth. I was outside, and there was plenty of light in the sky. The chill started infiltrating my body through the nose, the eyes, and somehow bathed my protected body with its icy grip. The leather coat and the corduroy pants did little to stave off the air that seemed interested in any of the few people who might be up this early. I rushed to the car, hoping for the safety of the enclosed space that would eventually be warmed by its engine.
It's really cold.
Half an hour later I was on the highway, halfway between my house and the airport. By then the sun has started timidly climb above the horizon. I was driving mostly west, but often I found the sun on my left. I have never driven at sunrise before. Very often, too often, I have driven into the sunset. It was only romantic in the beginning and only at certain places in the world. But here I was usually on the usual I-95 going to or from New York, and often at sunset there was still a lot of traffic, especially around the city. But today it was very different. I was driving away from the sun as it was rising and there were very few cars, though still more than I liked and more than I expected at this hour on a Sunday.
One of the vehicles was a van of a dark green color. Like all vehicles, it was a casket driven by a live person. It was alive in many ways, there was a heart beating inside, and it was moving through its own energy. The steamy exhaust reminded me of the complex dynamo that was hidden inside, driving this casket to the will of its driver, the owner of that heart. What was even more interesting was that its back was shiny enough to show an obscure but unmistakable reflection of my own casket, my blue Corolla whose headlights showed like two little suns on this dark green metallic surface, and whenever we passed under an overpass, I could see the reflection of the movement of the overpass on that same reflective surface. That, more than anything else, reminded me that I was moving. More than the trees and the malls and stores and depressing view of the abandoned factories that were passing me by, more than the speedometer that was clinging onto the limit of a state trooper's tolerance. Seeing my own casket fixed on the back of that dark green van while overpasses passed moving over me on that reflective surface, this made me realize life, not just the trip, was passing by. I looked to my left and saw the the sun again, now above the horizon, at least I believed so since I couldn't look at it for too long.
It was nearly eight in the morning, more cars joined us, and I was approaching the middle point where the financial suburb of New York, Stamford, would show its sleeping glass buildings made for the many banks branched out for the saturated city where a friend of mine was flying into. The green van disappeared, and I don't know when I had stopped taking notice of it that it had left my sight without registering any thoughts in me. I turned off the music, even though I thought classical music in the morning would be good for me. I wanted to notice things around me for a while. The reflection of the passing overpasses made me very curious about this strange trip I was taking. I was thoroughly jet-lagged, which enabled me to get up this early without much protest from my body. Its only protest was that the house was dreadfully cold, with the heat set to the bare minimum of 57 degrees, which, of course, was paradise compared to the 10 degrees registered by my car for the outside temperature. My mind was sharp by the time I got out of my house where the chill greeted me with its sinister teeth. And now, my mind was starving like my stomach was, but unlike the availability of an apple and a banana, there wasn't anything for my mind except the surroundings.
The sun now made its appearance on my rear-view mirror. Good morning, world. I was making this an-hour-and-fifteen-minute drive to pick up a friend, just a friend. I wasn't completely sure why I was doing it, except that I was the one who proposed it. I hate driving, in general, but I also knew that it was because of traffic. This time of the day, of the week, I suspected, correctly, that there would be no traffic. It was a pleasant drive, almost meditative if not for the clever, survivalist mind that knew it was important to keep my eyes on the road. When I was passing Bridgeport earlier, I saw the huge factory, whose function or product I never learned or cared to learn. But I did notice that steam rising from its double chimney. The steam didn't seem to rise directly from the chimney, but rather formed a few meters above the mouth of the chimney. I never noticed that; I've passed by it hundreds of times, but never noticed anything about it, just written it off as one of the many ugly features along this hour-long belt between New York and New Haven. On this chilly morning when the sun was just slowly rising, casing a glow that turned equally slowly from blue to yellow, the ugliness took a different coat, one of color and solemnity, like an ogre that is not in the mode of fighting or hating, but sleepy, almost beautiful.
The only time I had to slow down, though not stop since I had a pass, was getting on the Whitestone Bridge. That was when I also started to play music again. My time of meditation while driving was thus over and I wanted to stop noticing things for now. I still haven't figured out what I was going to the airport and picking up this friend for. But there was no reason not to do it, and that was good enough for me. I wasn't in need of sleep. I actually woke up long before I had to and stayed up since then. What else could I have been doing but to drive down this strip that was always familiar to me, especially the route to the airport, but I never really took notice of its details. A new experience on an old course. I guess you can always have that, make any part of life new even if you are traveling at an old place.
