going home

I was trying to go home to Newcastle to visit my family. I caught trains and buses; I walked across cities, over bridges, and through underpasses. I wept when I saw another woman saying goodbye to her family, knowing that it may be much longer than she ever imagined, before she would be reunited with them. I said goodbye to people at the airport, and then found myself back in their home where I had been staying, packing my bags again. Again I said my goodbyes. I drove a plane through the streets, maneuvering it so that the wide wing span would not clip anything we passed, heading toward the airport. I waited in my car to transport others to the airport, and then, once we were on our way, the car skidded out from under me, rearing up and throwing my passengers out onto the street. I climbed up many flights of stairs, aiming to reach street level so I could travel to the airport, but as I was about to climb the final few stairs, I fell down a hole and plummeted downward, waiting to hit the bottom. As I fell further and further down, I also grew more concerned about the probable hard impact upon landing. I reached out and grabbed a pole, skidding to a halt. I then had to climb back up out of the hole, using a ladder that appeared. It took all my upper body strength to climb the ladder as many of the rungs were missing or snapped off in my hands upon grasping them. I passed people in their apartments and spoke briefly with a Japanese man who had been practising a martial art using a sword until he saw me climbing past his window. Finally, I climbed out of the hole and emerged into the street. It was late and I was still no closer to flying home.