I'm on a plane on my way to Kansas City, where I lived for three years before moving to Indianapolis in 1989. The air has just been sheared by the wings and, with my plane held firmly between the resultant streams of air, I've just been lifted up above a layer of clouds which I can only (and without any creativity) describe as giant cotton balls laid end-to-end as far as the eye can see.

On the surface of things, I'm headed to Kansas to attend the surprise birthday party of a distant friend but nestled down by my feet in my beloved Kenneth Cole briefcase — the one I bought at a T.J. Maxx in Bloomington as a gift for my father — is a worn Indiana Jones action figure. One of the reasons I'm on this flight is to take him home. At least, as close to home as I can get him. Which may be difficult, after all, since I don't know who his rightful owner is. I only know I stole him over twenty years ago.

The important thing to remember is that, as a child, I idolized Indiana Jones. Along with Luke Skywalker, Batman, Superman, He-Man and Optimus Prime, he led the pantheon of heroes that captivated my imagination.

In fact, at this moment, I'm reminded how every plane flight growing up was an occassion to imagine that I was Indiana Jones, setting off on a grand adventure.

And I recall how, after moving to Indiana, one of my most triumphant moments involved journeying home from the filthy Indian Lake Country Club swimming pool during an apocalyptic rainstorm and finding, nestled snugly on the front porch, a damp box containing the genuine Indiana Jones felt fedora I'd earned by collecting a number of labels from Pepsi products — despite a life-long preference for Coke products.

(This last point is particularly entertaining to me at this exact moment because the flight attendant just responded to my request for a Diet Coke with — you guessed it — a Diet Pepsi.)

Of course, right along with dress-up on my list of favorite childhood activities was solitary play with action figures. I reveled in crafting epic and increasingly elaborate stories set in the universes of my favorite characters. And yet, I'd never played out any adventures in the world of Indiana Jones because I never had an Indiana Jones action figure. (Sometimes I'd try to make due by placing a tiny yellow Australian bushman's hat on a Han Solo, but it never quite did the trick.)

Well, that all changed one evening as a 7-year-old boy in Kansas, where, at the playground down the street from our house, I'd found a 3 ¾" action figure of Indiana Jones abandoned in a sandbox, undoubtedly by another young boy who'd been called away to dinner right in the middle of playing out his "story." The similarity between me and this unknown boy was as apparent to me then as it is now ... and yet, despite an intense awareness that what I was about to do was in violation of my nascent moral code and sure to bring the wraith of God and/or the Kansas City Police Department upon me, I snatched up the figure and secreted him home.

To tell you the truth, I never did play with him much. For one thing, he was missing a thumb on his whip-action arm ... and besides I didn't have a suitable whip for him to use — or a suitable pistol to fit in the plastic holdster molded to his thigh. For another thing, his legs were designed for what seemed like riding a horse and so simple tasks such as sitting in a chair or executing a proper kick proved to be pretty much impossible. But most of all, I could never quite forget that my possession of him was through nefarious means.

I've just touched down in Kansas. It's my first time back and given the itinerary for the trip, the entire tapestry of my life is on my mind. And so this return, to which I bring an adult perspective that I have come to recognize as being naturally connected to my childhood one, seems to be an opportunity to discover more about myself. And so I depart the plane not knowing what to expect.

Right now, I'm on a bus on my way to the rental car facility. I would have preferred to walk but Mirrabelle, the Budget Rent-A-Car CSR that I spoke to after temporarily overcoming my fear of telephones and following the direction on a sign that advised me to dial "04" to speak to her, suggested that I take a bus instead.

I'm sitting on a bench in a place called The Plaza — a big, open-air mall with fountains, horse-drawn carriages and Christmas lights I suspect are turned on all year. Half a block down, a jazz trio is filling the brisk night air with music. They just played "Here We Go Again" by Ray Charles. Now they're playing "As Time Goes By" — the theme from Casablanca. This feels like a very special moment to me.

Meanwhile, my rented Dodge Caliber is parked nearby in a spot that I'm almost certain will result in a ticket or a tow. But spots are scarce tonight and some guy in a Bimmer had just pulled out of it, so I figured it was probably kosher. Besides, if it did get towed, at least it would be an adventure.

Well, the Caliber didn't get towed — which, between you and me, was a huge relief. Right now, I'm reclining on my friend's couch. Coffee is brewing in the background and I have the whole day free to roam around.

I'm sitting in a McDonald's a few blocks away from my friend's house in Lenexa. If things had gone according to plan, right now I'd be landing in Indianapolis; instead, I won't even be taking off for another 12 hours ... which means I'll need to leave my recently-adopted kitten unattended for a little less than 48 hours instead of a little more than 24. Additionally, I'll be late by half-a-day to my recently-acquired corporate job.

Complicating matters is the fact that, at this exact moment, my cell phone is completely dead — drained by a long conversation with my mother about her career goals and her feelings about my sister's recent (and much-needed) move into her own apartment, as well as an only slightly shorter one with my father about the canceled status of my flight and how, in light of this, I planned to get home.

My initial reaction was to drive the rented Caliber back to Indy, an idea my father — who insisted that I fly out here rather than drive — described as "fucking insane." As I had acquiesced to his demand that I fly in the first place, I was not in the mood for this kind of attitude and I got into a bit of an argument with him about the differences in our values.

Alas, driving the Caliber back to Indy proved to be impossible and renting a one-way car would have easily cost around $200 — this, on top of the cost of parking my car at the Indianapolis airport, renting the Caliber and pre-paying for a tank of fuel I'd barely used. Thus, I ultimately elected to stay in Kansas overnight and fly back in the morning — this, despite my belief that an unexpected trans-regional car drive would have made for a more adventurous (and thus more appropriate) end to this story.

And while this entire incident is serving as a reminder of the inability of the human mind to understand, much less foresee, the wisdom of the universe, I'd feel remiss if I didn't point out that had I followed my original plan and drove here in my car instead of flying — a plan my earthly father vehemently denounced on the grounds that it could result in being stranded — I'd be home right now.

I'm lying in a bed in a Hampton Inn in Lenexa. I won't bore you with the details of how I came to be here but suffice it to say it involved paying overall just about as much money as it would have cost to drive right home today.

Here in this big, comfortable hotel bed my mind drifts back to a hotel bed I once shared in Wisconsin and I feel my heart tense up as if it's bracing for impact. And I realize how much different I am now, in sum, from who I was then. How much older and how much colder ... how much more centered and, in many ways, more mature. And yet, I wonder if the me of Wisconsin or the me of my youth would find the me of today sad. And I'm reminded how little my heart has grown in the intervening years, caged up and afraid to trust itself.

And I wonder if maybe that isn't the lesson I was brought to this hotel room to learn.

I'm on a plane on taxing on the runway of the Kansas City airport. A few hours ago my father and I spoke on the phone and he admitted (as much as he can) that he and I have different tastes when it comes to travel and, indeed, to life.

We've taken off now and I'm rising up above the clouds, on my way, at last, back home.

As for the Indiana Jones action figure, I returned him to the park from whence he came. What will become of him — or me — I have no idea.

Outside my window there is nothing but endless white.