And. I'm home... and. I'm home, and I'm. Home, and I'm home. That sounds like a Bright Eyes song title. It isn't. I wish it were. Then I could listen to it, and maybe it would shake my experiences out of my ears, like water, and maybe the droplets would land in a line and then I could write about them. But my timeline is all jumbled. Six plane flights in the mist. Six.

The 747's wings are flapping like a bird's, 10 meters up, 10 meters down, and sideways, and the purple starred seats in the cabin pipe shakuhachi music from the speakers in the armrests and five effeminate Singaporeans are saying, in turn, 'Ma'am, would you like lamb chops and mashed potatoes or Chinese stir-fry?' and 'Please be careful with that hot tea, it is a bit turbulent outside', which is an understatement since we are flying through a lightning storm. This is one of a series of storms that has flooded Jakarta, but the Singaporeans are still pouring hot tea, and displaying images of lotus flowers on the seatback videoscreens. Their hands, holding the teapots, stay remarkably steady as the floor tosses their feet. I am too dumbfounded to be terrified. I am too enamored with the lamb chops, anyway.

In Hong Kong a Chinese man is screaming at people boarding the plane to get into two lanes, in English, but in such terribly accented English that nobody understands him. In response, he screams louder. If this was America he could just deny them entry onto the plane for 'security reasons'. It isn't America. He screams louder and louder until flecks of spit fly out of his mouth, and he stomps off in a rage to join the other men who are hand-searching carry-on luggage with rubber gloves. One of them unscrews my body lotion. "What this?" he asks me. "Body lotion?" I ask him, meaning can I take it? but he has already made a face and handed it back. He misses the jeruk manis in the bottom. I am (accidentally) crafty. I also smuggled in some nata de coco. I am going to get preserved coconut disease culture ALL OVER AMERICA, HAHAHAHA. Did you know, they ask you that on customs arrival cards? Like so:

Are you or any member of your family planning to bring into the U.S.A. any of the following items: fruit, vegetables, plants, disease cultures, pests, or snails? Yes/No

Disease cultures? Snails? I sit with my pen hovering over 'Yes' for a good two minutes, but then decide that my desire to be able to have a nice conversation in English for the first time with an immigration official ("Why? Well... I just, like, thought it would make a nice souvenir for my boyfriend, this snail smeared with bird flu culture... don't you think?") doesn't override my desire to not go to jail. Then, later, it doesn't matter, because I get my first desire anyway:

"What's 'PNG'? Punnngggg? Where's that?"
"Pee Enn Jee."
"Punngggg?"
"No, Papua New Guinea."
"Where's that?"
"....." (But... you're an immigration official!)
"Well?"
"It's... on the island of Papua, near, like Australia... and..."
"Oh, Australia... well, Australia's OK. Next!"

and later, at the bank:

"Do you guys change Swiss Francs?"
"Do we change whatsawhoozees?"
"Swiss Francs."
"What?"
"Swiss. Francs."
"Where they from?"
"Switzerland. Switzerland. Francs."
"Oh. Okay... WHAT they called?"
"Swiss Francs."
"Okay... I think I see em, but... this gotta be wrong, 'cuz it say it trading at about 150,000 of 'em to the dolla... oh no, wait, awright. Okay. No. This gotta be wrong. Now it say it give you $150 for your 200 switch francs."
"Yeah. That's what it's trading at. That's right."
"You say Switch Francs?"
"Um.... yes."
"Okay, here you go."

I'll finish later. I'm too tired to move my frozen fingers.