Fred Flintstone is crunching the ice from his Diet Coke. I follow the three white lines down the leg of his track suit to the strangely patterned carpet on the floor of the Boeing 777 Overwater Model we share where the shredded foil of his Toblerone lies at his feet. We fly through strong turbulence and the entire fuselage twists and groans. Two seats to my right a Swedish woman is losing the battle to keep her white wine and water in their cups, one in each hand.

In one hour we've traveled nearly 600 miles. We've crossed the inland sea that is Lake Michigan, moving in a sweeping arc over central Canada with London lying 3,313 miles away and 38,000 feet beneath me. The irritating sounds of someone shuffling cards over and over comes from a nearby seat.

*

The sky is clear and blue above Edinburgh. Ancient masonry stands beside new construction in balanced, diplomatic harmony. Scottish voices blend with the droning tones of an American man, convinced everyone is interested in his story. Norwegian, French, and Indian voices rise above the clatter of flatware and china, the undeniable sound of a hotel.

Outside is the quiet city. Never have I traveled so far to a place which feels so much like home. Last night's conversation and whisky still on my lips I feel the cold air conditioning chill my back. Gulls in flight cast shadows on a stucco wall. The girl from the Hotel Ibis passes, looking at me with a penetrating, discerning stare, a Mona Lisa smile forming on her face as I look up from my coffee. Regally she turns, glancing back twice, toying with this traveler.

*

Traveling opens one's eyes -to the good of the world and to the ridiculous, the appalling, and absurd. With eleven hours of uncomfortable waiting before me I reflect on the week. Much of it already seems long ago, not unlike a dream or remembered film.

Anxious to be home I stood as soon as the little Airbus jet landed at Heathrow. Baby-Cries-A-Lot had screamed all the way from Edinburgh and was still wailing as the little blue plane settled on the tarmac. Scanning the aisles for my brother, I gave him a cruel smile as I notice his proximity to the banshee child. It was then that I noticed a second infant, stretching its arms and yawning silently in its mother's arms in the seat behind me.

A trio of Italian women had taken note and stood whispering their approval. The mother, probably in her mid-40s, glowed with warmth and tenderness. I smiled at them and wanted to hold the baby.

Later Ian and I stood at the baggage carousel. For the second time at Heathrow everyone had taken their luggage while we stood waiting. "Maybe they've sent our suitcases up the oversize luggage belt." I walked to the other chute, fearing the worst. The mother was there watching for her bags.

"You have a beautiful baby; what's his name?" "Seamus", she said in honeyed Irish tones, her eyes glimmered. "I have a Brennan at home." She looked at me. She was the Virgin Mary, she was Everymother. Smiling, she said, "I saw you on the plane. You look a true Scot. Scottish color, Scottish features", touching my cheek as she spoke. Seamus looked about with clear blue eyes, pure cerulean. I brushed his perfect face with two fingertips. His mother told me of some islands in the west of Scotland which I should visit when time permits and that my tartan was one of the ancient ones ("not false like some").

A woman from BMI drew close to help her. Bob Hoskins was coming toward me with my luggage on a cart. The mother and I wished each other well, agreeing Heathrow was the worst airport in the world, and said goodbye.

*

Edinburgh, Coldstream, Kelso, Peebles, Lilliesleaf, Dundee, Broughty Ferry, and Monifeith. No place in Scotland felt foreign. Conversely London is a racist, multi-cultural hive.

A man from Bangladesh takes my order at AMT Coffee -then promptly waves another Hindi man forth, takes his order, preparing it and completing the sale before starting on mine. The lid is not secure and three drops of the hot Americano splashes, marring my clean white shirt.

We stop to leave our bags at the 'Left Luggage' counter where a smug tandem comprised of college-age Dutch and Indian boys deliberately keep us waiting. [Later we'll find they not only tore the front of my suitcase, but also rifled through our belongings and even took the time to open our shave kits and squirt the liquid soaps all over everything]

The blend of voices is both inspiring and chaotic. London is the only place where I do not hear American voices. Ian and I have a conversation with Timmy from Lagos, Nigeria, a broad-faced man with an immense smile who joins us at our glass table after I indicate 'this seat is open'. Australian, Japanese, Malaysian, German, Italian, Belgian, Arabian, and African accents are all heard within minutes.

Men in gowns and turbans act as if they don't see us. Families from Qatar breeze by, letting their luggage trolleys hit our legs. Indians refuse to yield as they step through a doorway. I am white and hated by these invaders of the city of invaders. Feeling my hands become fists I square my shoulders and press through the human current, growing bitter and rigid. It is probably for the best that Ian and I slip into a corner cafe.

*

Airports are the last true crossroads.

One can easily picture Byzantium at its height, with East and West flowing into each other. Awaiting departure at my gate I love to see travelers disembarking after their flights. Some look weary, but most enter the terminal with smiles and anticipation.

All around me I see brothers embracing, new parents introducing newborns, families reuniting. There is a great confluence of colors. We see an African woman with her hair woven into a tight, ornate chain perfectly arranged in a pattern on her scalp. Turbans, saris, and burkhas appear amid the raincoats and business suits. Silk robes with gold brocade conjure images of The Arabian Nights. I see Danish girls with golden skin and hair, men with auburn curls and tweed caps, children with piercing almond eyes, and Italian families in garish fashion. I want to drop to one knee and photograph the faces, the bitter, weathered faces, the lineless youthful faces, and the stern, focused faces. The human visage is a roadmap of suffering and joy.

*

The kaleidoscope of flesh and proximity couples with curiosity in a traveler's blood and from it is born a sexuality. Appraising eyes meet in flights of imagination and potential.