2 posts from June 2009

Our transatlantic flight was delayed at least an hour, all passengers on board. The hurricane warning kept a queue of 15 or more planes grounded, our being the last. I didn't sleep much as we crossed the ocean, though I did try, but my excitement mingled with over-tiredness shocked my system to a near state of ADD. Thankfully my seatmate liked to talk a lot and so did the steward facing us from our seats in the bulkhead. Robert, Navneet and I talked the night away (classical music, Swedish mattresses, cross-country cycling trips) and then watched Slum Dog Millionaire, a film I've waited a long time to see. It was the perfect opening to a trip in to another world. The preemptive forewarning that later held me together as I witnessed similar circumstances throughout my trip. I could not image what it meant for a child to live in filth in a shanty of cardboard, foraging in the gutter for food, toys, and merchandise to resell.

Finally, finally, we landed in Brussels. I said goodbye to my new friends, and spent the next 20 minutes trying to refrain from dancing down the near kilometer-long hallway to immigration. It was hard. Along the way I stopped at a WC to wash up and take some water. When you see something for the first time, everything in your view is delightful. Well, that included the WC. Yes, I took pictures. The moment i stepped through the door, I burst out laughing for it was so different. They don't have stalls, but tiny, individual toilet rooms with heavy doors. The toilet paper is odd too, though quite sensible. It comes from a dispenser in sheets of two so that you don't accidentally over-draw and waste half a meter of paper. After brushing my teeth (of which I have a video, yes, yes) I moved back out to the hallway where I was soon distracted by a pair of statues looking opposite directions. Of course, I had to stand there and take a million photographs, posing with them.

There is something about those first few steps on foreign turf. You feel electricity shoot through your veins as you say those words: Bongo, I've a feeling we're not in the U.S. anymore. It is a crazy, crazy feeling. Just when you didn't think you could stand any taller, you're suddenly walking on the ceiling, and if the ceiling weren't there, you'd be walking on the clouds.

Following a 1am packing spree, 2 hours of sleep, 3 ½ hour drive, and 4 hugs goodbye at security, I am now through the gate. Alone at last. Since Friday morning I've been living for this moment, when I would finally turn the last corner of the blue-carpeted hallway to sit quietly by the terminal windows and watch the planes come and go. It means no cell phone, it means no internet, it means no planning; it means I can do nothing more, and that is the greatest relief. Someone told me that the hardest step is onto the plane because you can't turn around. Mid-flight, the pilot is not going to sympathize with your home-sickness, regrets, or misgivings. “Sure son, we can turn this plane around. You've changed your mind? We'll be home in just a minute.”

I think the hardest moment isn't a moment. It's the press leading up to the moment of relief, when you finally turn that last corner. It's running the last errands, settling final plans, packing and repacking, fixing the things that didn't go right the first time. Once you turn the corner, there is nothing more you can do. Not immediately at least. It's the kindest relief. It's the sweet, cool air stirring past your ear on a hot afternoon when the sun beats so oppressive and heavy you lose your breath. You just let go, sit back, and give in to the ride you have signed yourself away to. I'm relieved, alright?

I hadn't spent five minutes on the Other Side before noticing a stranger in loose-fitted cotton pants and a plaid shirt. His unresolved eyes fixed directly on my tumbled hair. His companion, a similar-looking traveler, seemed to find my Merrell treckers fascinating. He cocked his head to one side and studied them diligently, as if looking for for an answer. And how did I see all these things without staring rudely back? Through my new ninja cut, of course! I haven't had bangs since I was eight-years-old. Yesterday I went to the hair dresser, closed my eyes, and told her to have fun. Five inches and quite a few layers later, my family doesn't recognize me. It's a mildly wild cut with curl and flair. The shaggy bangs constantly fall in my eyes, making intimate conversation difficult, exactly my point. It gives me an air of mystery. And I can see everything through the unruly fringe. But you can't see me! Edgy,l I call it, and comfortably distancing. I think it adds to my battery of ninja powers, along with super clean kitchens, onion washing, an indelible desire to laugh, and dancing to my ipod in the street. In the meantime, we'll just have to wait out this tornado warning.