Union Station always was one of my favorite places in DC, and that was never truer than when we pulled up to the curb that morning. The cab driver got a luggage cart from somewhere and helped me load my luggage onto it. Or maybe he even did it all himself; I can’t recall for sure. I paid and tipped him, and then pushed the cart inside to the self-serve ticket machine, where I bought a ticket to BWI, the very next stop on the line. This, of course, would be yet another short part of the trip before the real fun started. With a bit of time to kill, I stashed my luggage in the luggage store room (the lockers having been off limits since 9/11) and went to the bookstore to browse. I don’t think I bought anything there. I do know I bought an Auntie Anne’s pretzel, the last one I would have until I found myself in Kuala Lumpur in August. I also now picture myself taking one last spin around the downstairs food court, which had been such a special treat when I'd first come to DC for good, back in 1996. All those goodies that seemed like a luxury when I was out of work, and an indulgence when I was in the money, plus all the many memories of going to the movies there with the ISH gang.

But I don’t know for certain that I did do that. It might be my memory playing tricks on me these two years later. I had been there pretty early in the morning in the past, and I knew by heart what the place looked like, with all the foodstuffs workers getting their places up and running, but no one actually selling anything yet except maybe coffee; and a few commuters mulling to and fro around the floor.
From then on I remember nothing until I was actually on the train. I can’t remember giving the conductor my ticket or how I got my luggage out there – perhaps a porter helped me. Somehow that sounds right, but I don’t remember for sure. My next clear memory is reading the Amtrak magazine on the train, specifically an article about the end of Sex and the City. How appropriate that I was leaving along with one of my favorite shows of the era! I also remember looking at the six bags stacked in front of me and worrying about getting them off the train.

It’s a pretty short trip from Union Station to BWI. Sure enough, I did need help getting the bags off. This time I do recall the porter helping me. I tried to carry them all, but once again it just didn’t work. But with a little help, I got them all safely off onto the platform before the train continued on its way. It was cold out there, but I was nearly done with lugging all six of the bags! For that I was grateful. But that leg of the trip wasn’t quite done yet.

As I had done in the hallway back in Arlington – already two state lines ago! – I carried them two at a time, ten feet or so and then back again for the next two. It isn’t a very long walk at all from the train platform to the bus stop, but of course it took me a while given the conditions. I remember walking up some stairs and through the corner of a parking garage at one point. It was sunny and cold, and I had that same nagging combination of exhilaration and fright and a touch of sadness. But just a touch.

Fortunately, that turned out to be the last real struggle I had with carrying all the bags. The bus arrived, I loaded them on two at a time, and we were off once again. The ride to the terminal was, of course, quite short; and here again, I have only the vaguest of memories. But then, it was just a couple of minutes. Once off, I was delighted to see luggage carts by the curb! Very quickly and gratefully, I loaded all the bags onto one. Then it was straight inside to the ticket counter, and I don’t think there was even a line.

There was, however, an extra charge for having too much luggage. No problem! I would have gladly paid more than they charged me (I think it was $50) to be rid of four of the six bags for the rest of the trip! With that detail squared away, I continued along my way with the remaining two bags, still in the cart for at least part of the walk. There was a long line at international security, and then the metal detectors to contend with. Somewhere along the line, a search of the luggage also took place; it was nerve-wracking, but of course my luggage and I were clean. Then it was just a matter of standing in line. I also ditched the cart somewhere in there, never really sure if I left it in an appropriate place or not. I do know that I got into no trouble over it.

With that most tedious part of the entire trip out of the way already, I made my way into the terminal and down the fairway to the gate. Once I’d located it, I bought an unhealthy but tasty lunch (I think it was a Pizza Hut pizza) and made fast work of it, having had only that rather small snack back in Arlington while waiting for Riki. And then there was nothing but to wait. It was about 11:00.

They tell you to arrive three hours in advance for international flights. In this case, that was about two and a half hours more than I really needed, and now I had three hours to kill. Of course, given all that could have been wrong, that really isn’t something I ought to complain about!

I sat there just off the fairway, staring out onto the sunny but bleak tarmac, thinking I should feel profoundly emotional about the farewell, but not feeling that way. I wrote a journal entry at that point which I still have somewhere. If I recall correctly, the entry was mostly about why I wasn’t feeling more emotional than I was. For one thing, I’d had my fill of long goodbyes by then, having done not much else for several weeks. For another, life in DC had become downright miserable and I wasn’t sorry at all to leave it behind. Then there was also the fact that John was leaving that very afternoon, Rikke (not to be confused with Riki) would also be gone shortly, and if I had stayed I’d likely have been unemployed pretty soon anyhow. I also wrote a blog entry about this memory six months later, from the comfort of a warm summer’s afternoon in Longtan. It remains an uneventful but iconic moment. A three hour moment, to boot!