While I am not religious, it took constant reminding walking through the empty halls of LaGuardia Airport (LGA) that The Rapture had, indeed, not occurred.  I have no illusions.  Should The Rapture happen, I know I will stay behind on clean-up duty.  At least RBD will be with me.  Looking around at our new post-Rapture reality, scores of bored TSA agents will also be our eternal companions.  One thanked me for flying.  

Every aspect of LGA is designed to handle thousands of people per hour.  I saw, maybe, 75 passengers total before boarding.  It is eerie and strange to be in a place meant to handle so many house so few.  Despite many shops being closed, workers far outnumbered us travelers.  

Onboard the flight, passengers were staggered in a theatrical attempt to socially distance.  Regardless, I felt safer on the airplane than Amtrak only because I could control how the air blew in my face.  

It is a myth commercial airliners use recycled air.  They never have, for it would require oxygen tanks (which are explosive) and scrubbers to remove the carbon dioxide.  It’s actually very difficult to maintain an artificial atmosphere.  Somehow, I don’t think an outfit like Spirit Airlines is up to the task.  Fresh air comes from an intake in the engines before the combustion chamber.  This is why on the ground as the engines spin up or while taxiing you can smell jet fuel.  Airplanes are pressurized, but not nearly as air-tight as people assume.  Anyway, with fresh-air blowing in my face, I felt pretty good about my reducing my viral exposure.  Masks were required.  Plus outwardly sick people are not welcome in society, whereas before it was somehow okay to be sick and out in public.     

We boarded after the plane had been thoroughly fumigated.  It was still humid with anti-viral fog, or whatever they use.  Planes aren’t usually humid, so I found it odd.  The drink service involved a plastic baggie with water and snacks.  Lastly, I noticed a rattle above me I had never heard before.  After several minutes, I realized it was the overhead luggage racks.  They rattled because they were empty. 

I commented to RBD about going back to, “See my people,” as the plane lifted off.  She looked at me quixotically and laughed, which is a fairly common dynamic in our relationship.  Her Lance’s Line creased, which is a permanent line running horizontally down her forehead near her right eye that appears when she furrows her brow, usually in reaction to something stupid I’m about to say or do.  It humors me to know my antics throughout the years have left a permanent mark in her collagen.  I may die, she may move on, but the Lance Line will be with her till the end …proof not only I lived, but lived irreverently.  It is, perhaps, the accomplishment I’m most proud of. 

She says to me, “You’re a liberal New Yorker, these aren’t your people anymore than they are mine.”  The plane jerks to the side, hit by air currents as it climbs out.  She is factually accurate, which is usually the case.  I was born in Central Florida, decidedly not Appalachia.  My only lasting connection to the state is my birth certificate. If I never visit again, I will still have lived a full life.  I did a nickel of hard time in Greenville, South Carolina, which is part of Appalachia.  It was rocky period.  However, it’s hard to know if I hated the town or hated being middle school aged.  The two are indelibly linked, perhaps unfairly to the (now) burgeoning Greenville-Spartanburg area.  I went to high school in Raleigh, not in Appalachia.  Like New York, though, almost nobody is from Raleigh.  Most people immigrate there because of economic opportunities, mild winters, and a quaint, Rockwellian suburban lifestyle currently being choked to death by unending traffic.

So where are you from if you’re from nowhere, or at least anywhere you’ll admit to?  I’ve lived in New York City longer than anywhere else in my life.  I love New York and call it home, but I’m not from New York.  Barring some freak accident or illness, I will likely not die here either.  New York is useful, economically.  Put up with the bullshit, of which there is a lot, and you’ll find it is relatively easy to make money here, and more money for the same job as elsewhere in the country.  Living here is a conscious decision that will allow RBD and I to partially retire by 55 (she thinks 58) and entertain ourselves in, presumably, other parts of the country or world in other careers while we’re still young and mobile. 

So what exactly is Appalachia?  Is it a place, a region, a specific mountain range?  And where is it?  Is it all The South, or a part of The South?  Is it all of North Carolina?  Is it a state of mind? Who lives there and why?  Do they call themselves Appalachians?  How is it even pronounced?  Is it app-pah—LA-cha or app-pha-LAY-cha?  Aren’t they all just poor hillbillies who love guns and fried food?

It turns out the answers are far more complex and interesting than you imagine.  Thanks for joining us, and welcome to the 7th iteration of Cleared for Departure.  Armed with hand sanitizer and a camera, we venture forth into the oldest mountains in the world.