Caleb had to go to Guam for work and when he left we weren’t sure that I was going to visit because of his possible work schedule, but he got to the island over 6,400 miles away and missed me and I him, so we knew I’d be leaving soon… and then even sooner so we could spend more time together with the room and rental car already paid for.

Caleb sent me beautiful views from his balcony, pictures from the park, and a video of rain while he waits in the car. I sent in return a photo of my bruised leg, a spider hanging in front of the door, and a jar of tarrango lilies. I look up things to do in Guam, at first, so that Caleb would have a list of ideas if and when he got time off to enjoy places that are open for two days a week and only for a few hours.

I spend two days packing — the first day is for collecting everything onto the bed and then tossing most of it in the bag I’m taking (checking for fit) while charging all electronics that will go. Then the second day is going over the pack list and making sure all items needed make it into a bag, purse, or pocket. This process was all done in 24 hours and finished just six hours before I was due to arrive at the airport.

My Uber arrives, driving a leased Tesla Model 3 while his car is in the shop. He wouldn’t want to spend over $50,000 on a taxi with expensive diagnostic tests. Ernesto may not want to drive a car like this, but that’s what California and New York are pushing for — a ban on selling new gas-powered vehicles and replacing them with zero-emissions vehicles by 2035.

In my pre-trip research, I had wondered why Guam, the most southerly island of the archipelago, was listed differently from the 14 Northern Mariana Islands, and what I found included a battle between Spain, the Philippines, Germany, Japan, the United States, and the Chamorro people over hundreds of years that left the Guamanians unwilling to reunite in the 1960s. Guam became a territory in 1950, and the CNMI wouldn’t gain this status until 1986, so they remain separate.

I have fun walking the empty security line as it zigzags, in preparation for the crowds that will soon fill its barriers, as I look forward to seeing my husband in roughly 19 hours. This translates to a whole day and three flights to get me 17 hours into the future (according to the time zone difference). I then have to wait my turn while I watch a very elderly woman have her whole body thoroughly patted down, as I reach out to catch her with the force of the search being applied.

I think it’s ridiculous, but I understand that criminals come in all forms and that this woman could’ve been taken advantage of — though that’s what I saw and worry what would’ve happened to this frail woman had I not been there to hold her up. The agent turns to me, gloves still wet, and pats my sleeve. I’m more concerned with getting drunk off the amount of alcohol she applied than she should be about her disposable gloves catching something, as I don’t see doctors dousing their gloved hands before surgery.

I’ll grab a snack from my bag and finish one of the books I brought while I wait to board for Los Angeles. I moved up a row to have a window seat, but not sure I napped at all on the 75-minute flight. My first layover is two hours, and I’ll spend the majority of it walking. I board the plane, and this man’s bag tosses half a bagel my way as the weight of everything else in there hits him in the head. I’ll scoot from my middle seat to the aisle to allow a couple to sit together.

I was nervous that I wouldn’t have space in the overhead compartment for my backpack, as I am also traveling with my overstuffed purse separately. I do pride myself on my ability to travel so light unless I’m bringing snorkel/dive gear, which I suppose is the equivalent of some people’s wardrobes and shoes, special event gear, and instruments, and baby food or pillows or booze.

I’m served a stroopwaffle and bubbly water, eat the wrap I overpaid for in the airport, and close my eyes for two hours. I get up to stretch, and a conversation with a friendly attendant ends with me getting a free blueberry oatmeal (an $8 value) that I will save for later. While I’m stretching during the second drink service, a man asks me to hand him a soda, and when I tell him I don’t work here, he helps himself.

The little door to access the cart was open, and he wasn’t taking anything that wasn’t being offered for free, so I didn’t feel the need to report him and returned to my seat with a handful of stroopwaffles as the attendant was passing out the last of them. As the plane approaches Honolulu, I wish I had more than the two-hour layover to explore.

The airport seems tiny at first, even though there’s an escalator going up as I come out of the gate, of which I assume there are about ten, and I’ll take another one down to explore the empty seats and shuttered shops and say hello to the one employee guarding the door. Upstairs has a group of payphone booths, which might seem outdated now, but they (as a whole) have a unique history, and some have been transformed to serve other purposes, such as a little library, tiny office, or small food stand.

There’s an exhibit and the sign about “the greatest swim coach in the world” catches my eye because that’s quite a claim, but one that was earned after Coach Sakamoto took his men’s swim team to the 1948 Olympics and won every event to include 11 out of 16 medal opportunities. There are goggles that were handmade, in the 1950s, by Shigeru Pabila, who made it into the Hawai’i Swimming Hall of Fame for ocean swimming, of which he placed first in his age group many times in the Waikiki Roughwater Swim, which is a 2.348-mile race.

The doors are wide open, and I’m not the only one who thinks that security must be super lax here, as it seems people can just be dropped off and walk in. I’ll take in the distant mountain view obscured with clouds behind all the airport roads and high rises in between. It’s not until I sit down to eat that I hear the announcement for the USO and realize the other terminals are connected by an outdoor pathway. I’ll learn that the military lounge is outside of security, so not worth the free sandwich I might have had.

I’ll wander the outside gardens instead and wonder why more airports aren’t increasingly layover-friendly. It’s calming to sit amongst the greenery and listen to the birds, and also watch employees eat lunch and tourists take selfies. I appreciate airports that have places for smokers, children, pets, praying, breastfeeding, sleeping, and reading about their current exhibit in arts, science, sports, music, etc. I’m not here long before it’s time to return, past the sharks holding pineapples, to my gate for boarding.

The middle seat is empty, and the woman in the right aisle seat seems a bit dramatic, but I’ll learn that she’s just excited to be returning to Guam, on a visit from DC, after so long, as she’s been dreading this unavoidable amount of flights and the day of travel it takes to accomplish them. She’ll offer me one of her jackets while we wait for blankets to arrive, which will be her cue to use the two seats to nap while I eat pasta and sip on coffee instead.

I try to sleep but return to reading with burning eyes, knowing that when we land in four and a half hours, I’ll be excited and exhausted. On my last flight, there was a group of three friends traveling from Britain who had spent three days in Los Angeles, on their way to a week in Hawai’i, and then three days in San Francisco before their return. The couple that sat beside me was also spending a week in Hawai’i, not sure if they’re meeting up with her family.

I’ll stand for a while and talk with a guy who is from Hawai’i and recently got back from San Diego, and here he is on another flight. He grabs a blanket and returns to his seat. I get up again to move my legs and head to the back for some hot green tea and a piece of marzipan — not sure if it was for First Class or the attendants, but it still tastes good. After some more stretching and reading, I’m ready for a nap.

Upon waking, I’ll talk with Mickey from Saipan (about a fourth the size of Guam), who has another 40-minute flight to get home but says it was worth it to spend the summer in Los Angeles with his other young friends. It was something for me growing up to save a few dollars (that had more value back then) to get out of the house, which is why I joined the military because I didn’t want to wait around too long to save up enough, but to imagine having to save up so much just to leave your home island… though I just found a flight for $660 that takes 36 hours to get to Los Angeles.

I make my way through the last airport for a week, and Caleb is parked outside nearby waiting for me. I love the smile I see when he notices me, taking my time to notice him as I stare at clouds and ocean in awe of another place reached and somewhere new for us to make lasting memories. Caleb drives us the twelve minutes to the hotel so I can shower and change into fewer clothes to accommodate the warmer weather. We thought we’d walk to dinner, but by the time we got out of the hotel parking lot, both decided we’re too tired for that thirty-minute adventure.

We chose the five-minute drive instead to King’s Restaurant, a recommendation from someone who has eaten the opened food in a dumpster and had their tongue burned in a horrific show of dominance, and can no longer differentiate between decent food (foreign or not) and what you eat for free after being starved for days without anything edible in reach.

Though we may not have been excited about the tinala katne (seasoned, smoked, and dried beef) with hineksa’ aga’ga’ (red rice with bacon grease and achiote powder), cabbage salad (cabbage and mayo), and finadene (vinegar, soy sauce, onions) we also ordered Italian cheese bread (cheddar and Swiss) with a meat marinara dipping sauce that was just as disappointing. It’s as if we were eating the fast food version of these recipes, with all the tasty details left out, which makes sense since the restaurant is American — the opposite of what we look for when traveling, even stateside.