Mom and dad are on their way to Minneapolis, which means they should be at their house tonight!
And I am heading out to see the world at 5:40 in the morning.
Good night, Spain. Good night, friends. See you again in August.
15 July 2012
Good News
My parents are on a flight to Detroit! I feel giddy and completely exhausted, not having slept well for the past four nights from the stress of it all. I don't even know if they slept--they were stuck overnight in the Amsterdam airport. (I hear it's been voted one of Europe's nicest, so that's a bonus.)
I'm going to collapse on my mattress now.
I'm going to collapse on my mattress now.
14 July 2012
In which my family lives The Terminal over and over and over again
My parents haven't flown since 1986. So when they secured buddy passes for an eighteen-day visit, I was obviously a little nervous. If you haven't experienced the adventure that is flying standby, it goes like this:
Your boarding pass has no seat number. You sit at the gate and wait until all of the regular customers have boarded, plus any last-minute full-price payers, anyone who got bumped off the last flight, anyone transferring over from a different flight, any extra flight crew members. And if there's still a seat open after all of that, you get on the plane. If not, your names are rolled over to the next flight and you try again. There are benefits: tickets are cheaper, and if there are empty seats in business class, you get to fill them. Still, it is a game only for those with nerves of steel.
I flew standby a few times last year with no major problems. But--again with the 1986 thing. And the fact that my dad is a prime benefactor of Murphy's Law.
He prefers parking in the McDonald's parking lot, turning off the car, walking inside, standing in line, and taking his food out to the car to eat over waiting in the drive-thru line. Mom and I will point to the two cars in line, talk about how it'd be so much faster than getting in and out of the car, and just when we've convinced him, those two cars will manage to take an extra twenty minutes placing their orders. That time I convinced Dad to adopt the perfect dog from an animal shelter? The dog shredded the window blinds and got hit by a truck.
Which brings me to the morning of June 24th, when my parents were supposed to arrive in Madrid with two suitcases and a cell phone that works only in the States.
My aunt, the gracious giver of the buddy passes, was tracking their flights online. Since I couldn't sleep anyway, I waited for travel news on facebook. They'd been bumped from the JFK-Madrid flight, she told me. They were being rerouted through Valencia in lieu of spending the night on the floor at JFK.
My parents don't know Spanish. My parents don't fly. Should I get to the coast somehow? Should I hop a speed train in the morning? I asked my aunt to throw out the train option if she happened to talk to my mom again. She said that mom had called but her cell phone was dying. Did they know about the train plan? Should I buy a ticket? What if I got all the way to Valencia (a 2-hour trip) and just missed them at the station?! It was 4:30am, so I did the most logical thing: I went back to bed.
I did not hear from them until 1:30 in the afternoon. I spend the entire morning pacing, a bundle of sweat and nerves, yelling, "WHY DON'T THEY CALL ME?" at the apartment walls. When the phone rang, it was a number I did not know: a phone they'd borrowed from a guy at the train station. "Where are you?"
"I'm in Madrid. Where are you?"
"We're at the train station in Valencia. We've been waiting for you." Dang it. I knew I should've bought a ticket! I tried to explain how to catch the Madrid train, and dad ended the call with, "We'll be in touch."
Oh my goodness. If ever there were conditions ripe for heart attack, it was my life right then. God managed to string some English-speakers into their paths, and my parents were headed toward Atocha at 155MPH. Meanwhile, I was trying not to die of anxiety. I caught a bus to Madrid and wandered Retiro Park for half an hour. I was sinking into the grass, sun filtering through tree branches, and all I could think was, "How am I going to find them? What if they don't get here? I am not going to live to see 30, because I am going to die of panic in Retiro Park." I hate how so much of life is dependent upon cell phones, but at that moment, my crusty, chipped little Orange phone was the most beautiful thing I knew. Except that it wasn't ringing. So I hiked back to the train station and walked in circles until I heard someone yelling my name.
They had arrived.
They had arrived without luggage.
We grabbed a commuter train to the airport, where the guy at the luggage desk informed us that Delta luggage people were only available between 7 and 11am.
We returned on Tuesday, and that's when we met Miguel. Miguel, with his panicked smile and jaunty red jacket. Miguel, who apologized for his slow computer ten thousand times after we handed him the baggage tags. Miguel, who, although he could clearly track their flights on his screen, informed us that he was unable to file a bag reclamation unless we had boarding passes in hand. And in the morning frenzy, I'd instructed my parents to gather their passports and forms together, not dreaming they'd need a different pile of paperwork.
So we tried again on Wednesday. Miguel was there again, looking harried. The entire Naval Academy was standing in line behind us, trying to figure out where their luggage was. Just as we stepped to the counter, Miguel apologized: "Sorry, sorry, sorry, I have so many people I have to take care of. You just stand there, I will help you right away. Sorrysorrysorry." He seemed terrified that the posse of attractive military men might use physical force, so we stepped aside for the next hour as they filled out reclamation after reclamation. Our reclamation took five minutes. I did not leave the airport that day with any love in my heart for Miguel or the Academy.
We did not go to the airport on Thursday.
Friday morning, we received an email from Miguel that the bags had arrived. Poor mom had been rinsing the same two shirts in the sink all week. She threw on Blue Shirt No. 2, and we headed toward the airport.
Miguel seemed less nervous this time. Perhaps the confirmation of arrival assured him that we would not beat him up. He directed us toward the lost luggage office, which of course was located in a different terminal. We took the bus over, found the office, found a suitcase. A suitcase. "I got a message that said two were coming, but that's the only one that showed up," the guy said.
As we pulled the suitcase outside, mom's face fell. "Just one?"
"He said that's all that came in."
She sighed. "And that's the one with all your stuff." The shoes, the clothes, the Reese's Pieces they'd brought over for me. Mom and her blue shirt were understandably disappointed.
I'd asked the luggage guy what to do next, but he said it was Delta's problem; I'd have to contact Delta. We shoved some coins into a pay phone and called the number on the claim tag, only to be told, "I'm sorry, I can't find your records. There's nothing we can do for you."
So it was back to Terminal 1, back to Miguel. "You found them? Yes?"
"We found one."
He stiffened. "They are both supposed to be here."
"The guy said only one came in."
"Okay. I will find out. You sit here." He pointed to the rolly chair behind the luggage desk. I sat. People approached to ask me ticket questions, and I shook my head, pointed to Miguel, who was juggling three different phone calls. "Sorrysorrysorry. They are not answering the phone over at luggage. There is nothing I can do until they answer the phone. You understand? I would take you there myself, but there is a flight, a flight is turning around and coming back and I don't know why, I can't do anything about it, I have to stay here, I can't do anything. Sorrysorrysorrysorry."
I waited, tried not to be anxious. Tried to be gracious and kind, because it wasn't Miguel's fault our bags weren't there. If Miguel had his way, he would've gotten us the heck out of there on Sunday afternoon. So I sat and I rolled, and ten years later, he got the phone call. "Your bags are in Terminal 4; they are just in a different luggage office. You go there, they will be there, okay? Sorrysorrysorry."
"No problem. Thank you. Thank you very much." I waved goodbye and he waved back, praying--I'm certain--to never see my face again.
We went to T4 again, walked into the baggage claim just next door to the one we'd previously visited, and there it sat alongside all the other lonely luggage: mom's blue suitcase, a beacon of glory. I've never seen a woman get teary-eyed over a suitcase before.
Skipping right along: it's now Wednesday, July 11th. D-Day. D for Departure. A return standby flight. And a disconcerting long line at the Delta check-in.
Pat and I dropped mom and dad off in the morning, and I dropped onto the couch for a nap. (The nerves were back! It's nearly impossible to sleep with The Nerves taking over my body, but it's more impossible to do anything else.) I awoke just before the 10:30 departure time, checked the flight stats online. Delayed until 4:15.
Yep. My parents waited almost six extra hours at the airport, only to learn they'd been bumped from the flight. And they still didn't have a cell phone that worked in Europe. When they found one of the last remaining pay phones in the greater Madrid area, I was able to say, "Catch the train to Atocha" just before the money ran out. Pat drove me to the train station. We sat. We saw my parents. We shoved the luggage back in the car. We tried again for Thursday morning.
This time, they borrowed the extra school cell phone. The odds seemed so much better: almost 40 seats still open! But I got a call at 10:45. The flight was full; no one on standby got a seat. Back to the airport with Pat. Another night at Hotel Shar.
The Delta reps in Madrid had already said that Friday's flight was overbooked, and the weekend didn't seem any likelier. We opted to buy tickets to Amsterdam, then aim for a standby flight from there to Minneapolis. (Amsterdam has three flights a day to Minneapolis alone. What? What is this whole two-daily-flights-to-the-States thing in Madrid?!) We reserved online and received a confirmation email. My aunt said that there were sixty open seats out of Amsterdam. My parents would finally get to go home.
I had a bad feeling last night.
We walked to the school to print off their boarding passes. The Delta check-in worked just fine, but AirEuropa was another story. Contact your issuing office, it kept telling us. Unable to find flight details. I punched in the confirmation number again and again. Nothing.
At the airport (Terminal 2 this time--they've gotten the whole tour!), the check-in kiosk also refused to find flight details. The assistant seemed perplexed but told us just to stand in line; it'd be okay.
The guy at the desk frowned. "I'll be right back." And he was right back...to tell us that the flight details were non-existent. "You'll have to go back to the info desk to figure out what's going on."
Thankfully, the lady behind the desk was smiley, with worried eyes that suggested she truly wanted to help. "Here's what happened. Your credit card was denied. Sometimes American credit cards do that."
"But...we got a confirmation!"
"I know. Sometimes American credit cards do that. I'm trying to get you on, but this flight is getting full." Oh no. Of course the day they could get out of Amsterdam would be the day they couldn't get into Amsterdam! We stood there for several minutes as she made phone calls. Then she told us that the only seats left were in business class and cost 700€ apiece. I could almost hear dad's heart hitting every rib as it fell out of his chest. "I will try to get you the same price you paid. The charge did not go through the first time, so I will charge you again here. It will be the same price."
There were a few more nervous minutes, but she finally printed out a confirmation sheet. Mom and Dad were taking business class to Amsterdam.
That's when it really began: the dropping off of the luggage, the crying, the reminders to call once they reached the Netherlands.
They are en route now--the internet tells me so--and my aunt just emailed to say that the 60 seats out of Amsterdam are free and clear. They have seen the Madrid airport for the ninth and final time. After twenty-one days in Europe, my parents should finally arrive in the United States tonight. They'll be a little tired and tattered maybe, but with plenty of stories to tell--stories, unfortunately, mostly about the airport.
But hey--the airport stories will be good for at least the next twenty-six years until they fly again.
Your boarding pass has no seat number. You sit at the gate and wait until all of the regular customers have boarded, plus any last-minute full-price payers, anyone who got bumped off the last flight, anyone transferring over from a different flight, any extra flight crew members. And if there's still a seat open after all of that, you get on the plane. If not, your names are rolled over to the next flight and you try again. There are benefits: tickets are cheaper, and if there are empty seats in business class, you get to fill them. Still, it is a game only for those with nerves of steel.
I flew standby a few times last year with no major problems. But--again with the 1986 thing. And the fact that my dad is a prime benefactor of Murphy's Law.
He prefers parking in the McDonald's parking lot, turning off the car, walking inside, standing in line, and taking his food out to the car to eat over waiting in the drive-thru line. Mom and I will point to the two cars in line, talk about how it'd be so much faster than getting in and out of the car, and just when we've convinced him, those two cars will manage to take an extra twenty minutes placing their orders. That time I convinced Dad to adopt the perfect dog from an animal shelter? The dog shredded the window blinds and got hit by a truck.
My aunt, the gracious giver of the buddy passes, was tracking their flights online. Since I couldn't sleep anyway, I waited for travel news on facebook. They'd been bumped from the JFK-Madrid flight, she told me. They were being rerouted through Valencia in lieu of spending the night on the floor at JFK.
My parents don't know Spanish. My parents don't fly. Should I get to the coast somehow? Should I hop a speed train in the morning? I asked my aunt to throw out the train option if she happened to talk to my mom again. She said that mom had called but her cell phone was dying. Did they know about the train plan? Should I buy a ticket? What if I got all the way to Valencia (a 2-hour trip) and just missed them at the station?! It was 4:30am, so I did the most logical thing: I went back to bed.
I did not hear from them until 1:30 in the afternoon. I spend the entire morning pacing, a bundle of sweat and nerves, yelling, "WHY DON'T THEY CALL ME?" at the apartment walls. When the phone rang, it was a number I did not know: a phone they'd borrowed from a guy at the train station. "Where are you?"
"I'm in Madrid. Where are you?"
"We're at the train station in Valencia. We've been waiting for you." Dang it. I knew I should've bought a ticket! I tried to explain how to catch the Madrid train, and dad ended the call with, "We'll be in touch."
Oh my goodness. If ever there were conditions ripe for heart attack, it was my life right then. God managed to string some English-speakers into their paths, and my parents were headed toward Atocha at 155MPH. Meanwhile, I was trying not to die of anxiety. I caught a bus to Madrid and wandered Retiro Park for half an hour. I was sinking into the grass, sun filtering through tree branches, and all I could think was, "How am I going to find them? What if they don't get here? I am not going to live to see 30, because I am going to die of panic in Retiro Park." I hate how so much of life is dependent upon cell phones, but at that moment, my crusty, chipped little Orange phone was the most beautiful thing I knew. Except that it wasn't ringing. So I hiked back to the train station and walked in circles until I heard someone yelling my name.
They had arrived.
They had arrived without luggage.
We grabbed a commuter train to the airport, where the guy at the luggage desk informed us that Delta luggage people were only available between 7 and 11am.
We returned on Tuesday, and that's when we met Miguel. Miguel, with his panicked smile and jaunty red jacket. Miguel, who apologized for his slow computer ten thousand times after we handed him the baggage tags. Miguel, who, although he could clearly track their flights on his screen, informed us that he was unable to file a bag reclamation unless we had boarding passes in hand. And in the morning frenzy, I'd instructed my parents to gather their passports and forms together, not dreaming they'd need a different pile of paperwork.
So we tried again on Wednesday. Miguel was there again, looking harried. The entire Naval Academy was standing in line behind us, trying to figure out where their luggage was. Just as we stepped to the counter, Miguel apologized: "Sorry, sorry, sorry, I have so many people I have to take care of. You just stand there, I will help you right away. Sorrysorrysorry." He seemed terrified that the posse of attractive military men might use physical force, so we stepped aside for the next hour as they filled out reclamation after reclamation. Our reclamation took five minutes. I did not leave the airport that day with any love in my heart for Miguel or the Academy.
We did not go to the airport on Thursday.
Friday morning, we received an email from Miguel that the bags had arrived. Poor mom had been rinsing the same two shirts in the sink all week. She threw on Blue Shirt No. 2, and we headed toward the airport.
Miguel seemed less nervous this time. Perhaps the confirmation of arrival assured him that we would not beat him up. He directed us toward the lost luggage office, which of course was located in a different terminal. We took the bus over, found the office, found a suitcase. A suitcase. "I got a message that said two were coming, but that's the only one that showed up," the guy said.
As we pulled the suitcase outside, mom's face fell. "Just one?"
"He said that's all that came in."
She sighed. "And that's the one with all your stuff." The shoes, the clothes, the Reese's Pieces they'd brought over for me. Mom and her blue shirt were understandably disappointed.
I'd asked the luggage guy what to do next, but he said it was Delta's problem; I'd have to contact Delta. We shoved some coins into a pay phone and called the number on the claim tag, only to be told, "I'm sorry, I can't find your records. There's nothing we can do for you."
So it was back to Terminal 1, back to Miguel. "You found them? Yes?"
"We found one."
He stiffened. "They are both supposed to be here."
"The guy said only one came in."
"Okay. I will find out. You sit here." He pointed to the rolly chair behind the luggage desk. I sat. People approached to ask me ticket questions, and I shook my head, pointed to Miguel, who was juggling three different phone calls. "Sorrysorrysorry. They are not answering the phone over at luggage. There is nothing I can do until they answer the phone. You understand? I would take you there myself, but there is a flight, a flight is turning around and coming back and I don't know why, I can't do anything about it, I have to stay here, I can't do anything. Sorrysorrysorrysorry."
I waited, tried not to be anxious. Tried to be gracious and kind, because it wasn't Miguel's fault our bags weren't there. If Miguel had his way, he would've gotten us the heck out of there on Sunday afternoon. So I sat and I rolled, and ten years later, he got the phone call. "Your bags are in Terminal 4; they are just in a different luggage office. You go there, they will be there, okay? Sorrysorrysorry."
"No problem. Thank you. Thank you very much." I waved goodbye and he waved back, praying--I'm certain--to never see my face again.
We went to T4 again, walked into the baggage claim just next door to the one we'd previously visited, and there it sat alongside all the other lonely luggage: mom's blue suitcase, a beacon of glory. I've never seen a woman get teary-eyed over a suitcase before.
Skipping right along: it's now Wednesday, July 11th. D-Day. D for Departure. A return standby flight. And a disconcerting long line at the Delta check-in.
Pat and I dropped mom and dad off in the morning, and I dropped onto the couch for a nap. (The nerves were back! It's nearly impossible to sleep with The Nerves taking over my body, but it's more impossible to do anything else.) I awoke just before the 10:30 departure time, checked the flight stats online. Delayed until 4:15.
This time, they borrowed the extra school cell phone. The odds seemed so much better: almost 40 seats still open! But I got a call at 10:45. The flight was full; no one on standby got a seat. Back to the airport with Pat. Another night at Hotel Shar.
The Delta reps in Madrid had already said that Friday's flight was overbooked, and the weekend didn't seem any likelier. We opted to buy tickets to Amsterdam, then aim for a standby flight from there to Minneapolis. (Amsterdam has three flights a day to Minneapolis alone. What? What is this whole two-daily-flights-to-the-States thing in Madrid?!) We reserved online and received a confirmation email. My aunt said that there were sixty open seats out of Amsterdam. My parents would finally get to go home.
I had a bad feeling last night.
We walked to the school to print off their boarding passes. The Delta check-in worked just fine, but AirEuropa was another story. Contact your issuing office, it kept telling us. Unable to find flight details. I punched in the confirmation number again and again. Nothing.
At the airport (Terminal 2 this time--they've gotten the whole tour!), the check-in kiosk also refused to find flight details. The assistant seemed perplexed but told us just to stand in line; it'd be okay.
The guy at the desk frowned. "I'll be right back." And he was right back...to tell us that the flight details were non-existent. "You'll have to go back to the info desk to figure out what's going on."
Thankfully, the lady behind the desk was smiley, with worried eyes that suggested she truly wanted to help. "Here's what happened. Your credit card was denied. Sometimes American credit cards do that."
"But...we got a confirmation!"
"I know. Sometimes American credit cards do that. I'm trying to get you on, but this flight is getting full." Oh no. Of course the day they could get out of Amsterdam would be the day they couldn't get into Amsterdam! We stood there for several minutes as she made phone calls. Then she told us that the only seats left were in business class and cost 700€ apiece. I could almost hear dad's heart hitting every rib as it fell out of his chest. "I will try to get you the same price you paid. The charge did not go through the first time, so I will charge you again here. It will be the same price."
There were a few more nervous minutes, but she finally printed out a confirmation sheet. Mom and Dad were taking business class to Amsterdam.
That's when it really began: the dropping off of the luggage, the crying, the reminders to call once they reached the Netherlands.
They are en route now--the internet tells me so--and my aunt just emailed to say that the 60 seats out of Amsterdam are free and clear. They have seen the Madrid airport for the ninth and final time. After twenty-one days in Europe, my parents should finally arrive in the United States tonight. They'll be a little tired and tattered maybe, but with plenty of stories to tell--stories, unfortunately, mostly about the airport.
But hey--the airport stories will be good for at least the next twenty-six years until they fly again.
12 July 2012
Backpack Backtrack: May 19th-20th
It seemed brilliant when we bought the tickets in March. I have been listening to the Wicked soundtrack regularly since spring of 2006, when my friend Anna and I would twirl in our dorm rooms to "I'm Not That Girl," using the extra mattress from my roommate-no-longer as a stage. After Will busted out "Popular" during supper at the Chinese
restaurant in Álcala last fall, Sarah and I started discussing the possibility of seeing Wicked for real. Like, on Broadway. So when we found cheap tickets and flights in May, we
booked! The only problem was that we had only a weekend to get to London and back, and our flight options left us with roughly 24 hours in the city.
London is its own special brand of magic. You don't even realize how London has seeped into the culture of your childhood: Narnia and Paddington and Hogwarts, Big Ben on every poster, your dad shouting "Penny Lane!" every time some Beatles imitation group asks for requests. Whenever I visit a new place, I look forward to it, but when our bus from the airport crossed the Thames and I saw the outline of the London Eye, my inner organs dropped to my toes in the fulfillment of every small-girl dream. I got anxious and giddy and started picking at the seat fabric because it didn't seem appropriate to yell, "LOOOOOONDON!" just then.
Before our 2:30 show, we'd seen guards playing a brass pops concert outside Buckingham Palace, Big Ben, the outside of Westminster Abbey. We hadn't even gotten into the city to watch Will wolf down his full English breakfast until 10am, so there wasn't much time to do anything fully, just shuffle down the sidewalk and gape at everything along the way. Like I said, 24 hours. The sweetened condensed tour.
And Wicked. Oh, Wicked! The lights! The frill! The dancing! I think my heart stopped multiple times. I had to remind myself to breathe, taking in those voices. Sarah would grab my hand and squeeze it at key points, or she'd slap my legs as one of our favorite songs started. The soundtrack of our school year! I can't remember the last time I felt so fully captured by something. I would buy that ticket and take that early-morning flight again, live it over a hundred times, even considering what came next.
I know Spain's 8pm supper time is not usual, but I really wasn't expecting everything in London to close so early. By 5:30, the Tower of London was closed. Cafés, closed. Restaurants, closed. Subway! Closed! Maybe we were in a bizarre section of town or something; maybe we'd picked a secret holiday. Still, it wasn't until 9 that we found a little fish and chips place with an exasperated waitress. We'd hoped that maybe we could fit in some other magic before bedtime, this likely being Will's only trip to London and all, but when we left our dirty supper dishes for a final excursion to the London Eye, there was a disappointing lack of people standing in line outside. Because, like everything else that day, it was closed.
So we walked to Trafalgar Square instead. A drunk man was wading in the fountain, yelling, "I'm going to jail!" (I think that was a lie.) It just so happens that on this very night, the police were busy with more than drunken fountain waders, because on the 19th of May, the Chelsea football team was playing a match against Zurich, and it just so happens that this was the first time Chelsea had made it into the finals.
And it just so happens that on our one night in London, Chelsea won.
And it just so happens that our hostel was in Chelsea.
We'd spent an exorbitant £4.30 on a tube ticket earlier, so we opted for the No. 11 bus. On the top deck, Will turned to the guy behind him and asked, "Does this bus take us to Fulham Broadway?"
"Fulham Broadway? No, no this one. There are two No. 11s--one goes to Fulham, but this one doesn't." So...what?
At his advice, we jumped off at the next stop to wait for the other No. 11--he assured us it was only six minutes behind. When No. 11.2 number pulled up, Will asked the driver about Fulham Broadway. "No bus is going there tonight," the guy explained. "Too full." He gestured to the traffic that was picking up around us: Chelsea flags waving from car windows, people chanting, "Chelsea! Chlesea!" while blasting victorious music, and drunk men running half-clothed into the streets to bang on car hoods and cheer with the drivers. "No bus is going to Fulham tonight--it's blocked off."
"Is there any other bus we can take to get there?"
"No bus will get you closer. It's all blocked off. And if you are going there, hold hands with these girls and don't let go." Yeah, as much as my students would like to see that happen, I wasn't anticipating that Will would grab our hands as he warded off Chelsea fiends.
On the upper level of Bus No. 11.2, Will again asked a guy behind him for help. "I'm getting off at [whatever stop]. That's as close as you'll get tonight."
"Then we'll follow you when you leave," Will decided.
The bus stop was somewhere between Fulham and Complete Madness. Drunk Chelsea fans were stumbling in front of traffic, cheering, screaming, while cars backed into lanes at angles no sober person could deliberately make. Policemen on walkie-talkies exchanged information about someone who, we guessed, who was lost or dangerous or insane (or all three) and was probably the focal point of the giant helicopter floodlight overhead.
But where was our hostel? We went several blocks down a promising street, Will stopping anyone fully-clothed to ask if they'd heard of Bagley's Lane. All we got were a bunch of I don't know, man, I don't really live around heres. We turned back, tracing our path to the end of the road where we'd started, stepping around the same puke puddle for the fifth time. We flagged down a taxi to ask for directions, but the driver claimed he'd never heard of the street. It was back and forth on that street until a girl smoking outside her apartment warned, "Hey, people keep coming from that direction, complaining they've been hit with water bottles. I wouldn't go there if I didn't have to." Perfect. Victory and assault all in the same night.
The printed directions made no sense, no matter how we tried to interpret them. Our hostel was probably right in the middle of all this, the brawling and screaming, right at the tip of the helicopter searchlight, and the fugitive was probably in our room, setting fire to our sheets.
We'd been wandering for over an hour. Will stopped a random woman on the sidewalk, a woman who seemed fairly confident about the alleyway she was pointing toward. It turned out to be the right one. Our hostel was full of men watching game highlights, and we checked in at 1am.
Did I mention that we'd left the restaurant at 10?
Our credit cards were denied as we tried to buy train tickets to the airport for our 8:30 flight. I knew that if I fell asleep at 1:30, I'd never get up by 5, so I spent the night in the hostel lobby, keeping record of all the happenings on the back of a Starbucks bag. A mouse scuttled underneath the couches.
One more thing: I figured I should know where Sarah and Will were sleeping, in case they didn't appear at 5 and I had to shake them out of various stages of rigor mortis. Room 12, the guy said. We walked up the steps, up again, up, up, up to rooms 5 and 6 and 7, then 8. Back down again, 1, 2, 3, 4. Back up. Only 1 through 8. Back down, but then, oh, around the corner--a secret hallway. More rooms: 9, 10, 11. Back down the stairs, through the bar/lobby, someone was asking where the room was, the edges of my brain were entirely fuzzy, and then we were walking through a back hallway into an outdoor courtyard, where a bunch of guys stood around speaking French, and on the edge of the courtyard was room 12, dark and full of sleeping men.
My brain came unattached from my brain stem somewhere around 2:30am, but I remember reading a newspaper and watching the mouse. Sarah met me at 5:30, but Will hadn't appeared yet. She'd been the brave one, sleeping in the dark, dank man room, so I got to be the one to creep through the courtyard. To squint in the shadows that smelled like dirty man socks.
I had just figured out which bed was Will's when a soft alarm sounded. His silhouette turned over to me--me in some stealth dinosaur pose in the dark--and whispered, "Creeper."
So we got no sleep but we did see Wicked, and it's all still worth it somehow.
London is its own special brand of magic. You don't even realize how London has seeped into the culture of your childhood: Narnia and Paddington and Hogwarts, Big Ben on every poster, your dad shouting "Penny Lane!" every time some Beatles imitation group asks for requests. Whenever I visit a new place, I look forward to it, but when our bus from the airport crossed the Thames and I saw the outline of the London Eye, my inner organs dropped to my toes in the fulfillment of every small-girl dream. I got anxious and giddy and started picking at the seat fabric because it didn't seem appropriate to yell, "LOOOOOONDON!" just then.
Before our 2:30 show, we'd seen guards playing a brass pops concert outside Buckingham Palace, Big Ben, the outside of Westminster Abbey. We hadn't even gotten into the city to watch Will wolf down his full English breakfast until 10am, so there wasn't much time to do anything fully, just shuffle down the sidewalk and gape at everything along the way. Like I said, 24 hours. The sweetened condensed tour.
And Wicked. Oh, Wicked! The lights! The frill! The dancing! I think my heart stopped multiple times. I had to remind myself to breathe, taking in those voices. Sarah would grab my hand and squeeze it at key points, or she'd slap my legs as one of our favorite songs started. The soundtrack of our school year! I can't remember the last time I felt so fully captured by something. I would buy that ticket and take that early-morning flight again, live it over a hundred times, even considering what came next.
I know Spain's 8pm supper time is not usual, but I really wasn't expecting everything in London to close so early. By 5:30, the Tower of London was closed. Cafés, closed. Restaurants, closed. Subway! Closed! Maybe we were in a bizarre section of town or something; maybe we'd picked a secret holiday. Still, it wasn't until 9 that we found a little fish and chips place with an exasperated waitress. We'd hoped that maybe we could fit in some other magic before bedtime, this likely being Will's only trip to London and all, but when we left our dirty supper dishes for a final excursion to the London Eye, there was a disappointing lack of people standing in line outside. Because, like everything else that day, it was closed.
So we walked to Trafalgar Square instead. A drunk man was wading in the fountain, yelling, "I'm going to jail!" (I think that was a lie.) It just so happens that on this very night, the police were busy with more than drunken fountain waders, because on the 19th of May, the Chelsea football team was playing a match against Zurich, and it just so happens that this was the first time Chelsea had made it into the finals.
And it just so happens that on our one night in London, Chelsea won.
And it just so happens that our hostel was in Chelsea.
We'd spent an exorbitant £4.30 on a tube ticket earlier, so we opted for the No. 11 bus. On the top deck, Will turned to the guy behind him and asked, "Does this bus take us to Fulham Broadway?"
"Fulham Broadway? No, no this one. There are two No. 11s--one goes to Fulham, but this one doesn't." So...what?
At his advice, we jumped off at the next stop to wait for the other No. 11--he assured us it was only six minutes behind. When No. 11.2 number pulled up, Will asked the driver about Fulham Broadway. "No bus is going there tonight," the guy explained. "Too full." He gestured to the traffic that was picking up around us: Chelsea flags waving from car windows, people chanting, "Chelsea! Chlesea!" while blasting victorious music, and drunk men running half-clothed into the streets to bang on car hoods and cheer with the drivers. "No bus is going to Fulham tonight--it's blocked off."
"Is there any other bus we can take to get there?"
"No bus will get you closer. It's all blocked off. And if you are going there, hold hands with these girls and don't let go." Yeah, as much as my students would like to see that happen, I wasn't anticipating that Will would grab our hands as he warded off Chelsea fiends.
On the upper level of Bus No. 11.2, Will again asked a guy behind him for help. "I'm getting off at [whatever stop]. That's as close as you'll get tonight."
"Then we'll follow you when you leave," Will decided.
The bus stop was somewhere between Fulham and Complete Madness. Drunk Chelsea fans were stumbling in front of traffic, cheering, screaming, while cars backed into lanes at angles no sober person could deliberately make. Policemen on walkie-talkies exchanged information about someone who, we guessed, who was lost or dangerous or insane (or all three) and was probably the focal point of the giant helicopter floodlight overhead.
But where was our hostel? We went several blocks down a promising street, Will stopping anyone fully-clothed to ask if they'd heard of Bagley's Lane. All we got were a bunch of I don't know, man, I don't really live around heres. We turned back, tracing our path to the end of the road where we'd started, stepping around the same puke puddle for the fifth time. We flagged down a taxi to ask for directions, but the driver claimed he'd never heard of the street. It was back and forth on that street until a girl smoking outside her apartment warned, "Hey, people keep coming from that direction, complaining they've been hit with water bottles. I wouldn't go there if I didn't have to." Perfect. Victory and assault all in the same night.
The printed directions made no sense, no matter how we tried to interpret them. Our hostel was probably right in the middle of all this, the brawling and screaming, right at the tip of the helicopter searchlight, and the fugitive was probably in our room, setting fire to our sheets.
We'd been wandering for over an hour. Will stopped a random woman on the sidewalk, a woman who seemed fairly confident about the alleyway she was pointing toward. It turned out to be the right one. Our hostel was full of men watching game highlights, and we checked in at 1am.
Did I mention that we'd left the restaurant at 10?
Our credit cards were denied as we tried to buy train tickets to the airport for our 8:30 flight. I knew that if I fell asleep at 1:30, I'd never get up by 5, so I spent the night in the hostel lobby, keeping record of all the happenings on the back of a Starbucks bag. A mouse scuttled underneath the couches.
One more thing: I figured I should know where Sarah and Will were sleeping, in case they didn't appear at 5 and I had to shake them out of various stages of rigor mortis. Room 12, the guy said. We walked up the steps, up again, up, up, up to rooms 5 and 6 and 7, then 8. Back down again, 1, 2, 3, 4. Back up. Only 1 through 8. Back down, but then, oh, around the corner--a secret hallway. More rooms: 9, 10, 11. Back down the stairs, through the bar/lobby, someone was asking where the room was, the edges of my brain were entirely fuzzy, and then we were walking through a back hallway into an outdoor courtyard, where a bunch of guys stood around speaking French, and on the edge of the courtyard was room 12, dark and full of sleeping men.
My brain came unattached from my brain stem somewhere around 2:30am, but I remember reading a newspaper and watching the mouse. Sarah met me at 5:30, but Will hadn't appeared yet. She'd been the brave one, sleeping in the dark, dank man room, so I got to be the one to creep through the courtyard. To squint in the shadows that smelled like dirty man socks.
I had just figured out which bed was Will's when a soft alarm sounded. His silhouette turned over to me--me in some stealth dinosaur pose in the dark--and whispered, "Creeper."
So we got no sleep but we did see Wicked, and it's all still worth it somehow.
01 July 2012
Update from Bed Sector 5.7
I'm not even certain what that means, but ever since my parents and I hit a daily high of 13 miles on mom's pedometer, I think dad's been a bit disappointed that subsequent days have aimed lower (you know, a measly 8 miles instead).
(Did I mention that my parents are visiting? My parents are visiting.)
Today is the first day in a week that I've actually had time to just sit, and that'll end shortly: we have a 6am flight tomorrow to visit family in Norway. This is a trip I've been waiting for since at least sixth grade, when we had to write our first big reports--about a specific country--and I spent most of the day fretting that someone else would pick Norway first. Turns out everyone else was desirous over England instead, so I spent the next several weeks bawling my eyes out over notecards and fearing I'd get thrown in jail for unintentional plagiarism. And, nonetheless, fueling my desire to see Norway.
Anyway, I'm pretty certain I'll come back hung over on all that Norwegianness, lovesick and pathetic after finally seeing the place my family has been referring to my entire life. I'll probably just buy a bunad and stay.
But if I don't, I'll tell you all about it in a week or so.
(Did I mention that my parents are visiting? My parents are visiting.)
Today is the first day in a week that I've actually had time to just sit, and that'll end shortly: we have a 6am flight tomorrow to visit family in Norway. This is a trip I've been waiting for since at least sixth grade, when we had to write our first big reports--about a specific country--and I spent most of the day fretting that someone else would pick Norway first. Turns out everyone else was desirous over England instead, so I spent the next several weeks bawling my eyes out over notecards and fearing I'd get thrown in jail for unintentional plagiarism. And, nonetheless, fueling my desire to see Norway.
Anyway, I'm pretty certain I'll come back hung over on all that Norwegianness, lovesick and pathetic after finally seeing the place my family has been referring to my entire life. I'll probably just buy a bunad and stay.
But if I don't, I'll tell you all about it in a week or so.
23 June 2012
Irish Eyes
The crazy thing about the UK is that people speak English there.
The first weekend in May was Spanish Labor Day, so Caitlin and I hopped a plane to Dublin. I could understand every announcement on the plane and all the flight attendants getting snarky in the back. And then I could understand the people on the bus and the tour guides and the cashiers, and I tried not to say too much about it to Caitlin, because she's in love with a Welsh man and is well aware of this whole English-speaking phenomenon.
I tend to zone out when I'm surrounded by Spanish speakers; unless someone enunciates their words well in a crowd, it's all mushing together in my head as a drone. I'd love for it to not be like that, but it is like that. I am, however, good at catching certain swear words. After eleven months of letting my ears function at a low level of alertness, all this English was like candy. It makes you feel so intelligent: I just overheard two different conversations at once and understood them! I have moved to the fluency level required to order fast food! Next I'm gonna write a Master's thesis!
Of course, my foreign language default was on, so I kept telling the cashiers, "Gracias!"
It rained the entire weekend, which was not disappointing in the least because Ireland is supposed to be wet and green. And the houses! They're free-standing, not all built on top of each other like Spanish brick houses, and the bus drivers say things like, "Watch your umbrella there, love," and the tour guide at the old jail kept making sure people could understand what he was saying. In a country where customer service is not a high priority, this was all so refreshing.
The crazy thing about good stories is that they're mostly born of things gone wrong, plans come undone, and except for the drunk Dubliner who asked Caiti, "When're you gonna stop being so good-lookin'?" there wasn't a lot awry during this trip. No accidental five-mile walks to the ocean, no hostel roommates asking to borrow deodorant at 6:30am. Instead, we learned bookfuls (or at least bookletfuls--bookletsful?) about the Irish fight for independence, tested the Guinness and corned beef and cabbage, and watched the sun sink into the River Liffey.
The only thing I wish our trip had included was sheep. It was a lovely, rainy little weekend, and I remember thinking to myself as we flew back to Madrid, "How nice. How...strangely uneventful." Which, of course, is exactly what believers in Murphy's Law advise against thinking, but since I am not superstitious, I thought it anyway. Perhaps some would attribute the madness of our next UK visit to such thoughts, but here's what I think: when you go anywhere that's not home, awkward things have that much more potential to occur. And when you throw drunken sports-lovers into the mix, awkward just becomes awesome.
But that's another story.
21 June 2012
The Time-Space-Travel-Money Continuum
When I was eight years old, my family took a two-week road trip to California to visit family. I remember dad's cousin Bub's car soaring down crooked San Francisco streets and my fear that Bay Bridge would fall into the ocean as we drove over it. But we loved our California adventure so much that, three years later, when the parents proposed another road trip to Washington state for a wedding, Andrew and I printed out a sign of protest and chanted, "Washington, boo! California, yay!" for a good ten minutes.
(Not that it did any good. We still went to Washington. Plus, we were mistaken. The Pacific Northwest is fantastic.)
Anyway, great-uncle Don was our financial supplier for the first leg of the California trip. Whenever we left the house, he'd hand my brother and me a 5-dollar bill to pick up souvenirs. Andrew would come home with gumballs and erasers and toys from 25-cent machines; I'd come home with five dollars. When we unpacked our suitcases in sweet home North Dakota, my mom asked, "Where did that stack of cash come from?!" Instead of souvenirs, I brought home a deposit for my savings account.
(Should I mention the time I deliberated over a 10-cent bag of My Little Ponies at a garage sale? All that pony magic for only ten cents! But what if something better came along later and I didn't have any money left? I think my mom was proud of my mad budgeting skills at such a young age, but she was also concerned that I had no friends.)
(P.S. I did end up with the ponies.)
This summer is going to go down in history as The Summer I Traveled, and I don't mean to say that in a boasting way. I listened to an online speech last night in which the speaker told high school graduates, "Don't climb the mountain so the world can see you; climb the mountain so you can see the world." This is probably my last summer in Europe and potentially the last with so much free time, and there are so many mountains to climb, places I'd hoped to see, people coming to visit. It costs only slightly more to fly between six different countries than it does to drive round-trip from Minot to Minneapolis, and if I had children to feed I'd stay home and feed them, but that isn't my life right now. My life has been tucking away little caches of birthday money for something, someday, and I guess this summer is the something someday. I don't fully know why I feel like I have to justify it, except that I live in Europe where people don't expect missionaries to be, and a lot of you help me live and work here, and I think it's important to say that my life is not one giant European vacation which you are funding, even though those are the parts that get highlighted on Facebook. I don't want to lose anyone's trust when it comes to financial things; I use support money to live here lightly. Uncle Don's souvenir money is what's keeping me in the cheap hostels and feeding me the breakfast pastries.
A lot of what I'm about to write is going to feel like a travelogue, and I hope it never comes across as, "Hey, world, look how awesome I am at the top of this mountain!" At the end of the day, I'm still as sweaty and tired and wearing as much melty mascara as anyone else, and the number of countries I see will never make me a better person than anyone else, and I am just not that cool. So will you please forgive all my rambling and keep praying that I don't climb mountains just to be seen? Because I don't want to become that person. And what I want to say in all the writing about it and talking about it is only, "Hey, here's the view from this mountain: will you look with me, see as much as we can see together?"
(Not that it did any good. We still went to Washington. Plus, we were mistaken. The Pacific Northwest is fantastic.)
Anyway, great-uncle Don was our financial supplier for the first leg of the California trip. Whenever we left the house, he'd hand my brother and me a 5-dollar bill to pick up souvenirs. Andrew would come home with gumballs and erasers and toys from 25-cent machines; I'd come home with five dollars. When we unpacked our suitcases in sweet home North Dakota, my mom asked, "Where did that stack of cash come from?!" Instead of souvenirs, I brought home a deposit for my savings account.
(Should I mention the time I deliberated over a 10-cent bag of My Little Ponies at a garage sale? All that pony magic for only ten cents! But what if something better came along later and I didn't have any money left? I think my mom was proud of my mad budgeting skills at such a young age, but she was also concerned that I had no friends.)
(P.S. I did end up with the ponies.)
This summer is going to go down in history as The Summer I Traveled, and I don't mean to say that in a boasting way. I listened to an online speech last night in which the speaker told high school graduates, "Don't climb the mountain so the world can see you; climb the mountain so you can see the world." This is probably my last summer in Europe and potentially the last with so much free time, and there are so many mountains to climb, places I'd hoped to see, people coming to visit. It costs only slightly more to fly between six different countries than it does to drive round-trip from Minot to Minneapolis, and if I had children to feed I'd stay home and feed them, but that isn't my life right now. My life has been tucking away little caches of birthday money for something, someday, and I guess this summer is the something someday. I don't fully know why I feel like I have to justify it, except that I live in Europe where people don't expect missionaries to be, and a lot of you help me live and work here, and I think it's important to say that my life is not one giant European vacation which you are funding, even though those are the parts that get highlighted on Facebook. I don't want to lose anyone's trust when it comes to financial things; I use support money to live here lightly. Uncle Don's souvenir money is what's keeping me in the cheap hostels and feeding me the breakfast pastries.
A lot of what I'm about to write is going to feel like a travelogue, and I hope it never comes across as, "Hey, world, look how awesome I am at the top of this mountain!" At the end of the day, I'm still as sweaty and tired and wearing as much melty mascara as anyone else, and the number of countries I see will never make me a better person than anyone else, and I am just not that cool. So will you please forgive all my rambling and keep praying that I don't climb mountains just to be seen? Because I don't want to become that person. And what I want to say in all the writing about it and talking about it is only, "Hey, here's the view from this mountain: will you look with me, see as much as we can see together?"
19 June 2012
Hiatus
So I haven't written in awhile because I had all these finals to grade, a yearbook to publish, a house to move out of, four friends with backpacks and plane tickets, and now I'm sitting in the living room of my new house, afraid this shirt has adhered permanently to my skin after wearing it for three days in a row. Yeah. I am that girl. Also, all my North Dakotan friends are currently in airplanes somewhere over the ocean, and for the first time here, I feel truly homesick.
I'm going to write some stuff in a day or two, but first I've got about fifteen layers of grunge to scrub away. I'm sure you wanted to know all that. You're welcome.
I'm going to write some stuff in a day or two, but first I've got about fifteen layers of grunge to scrub away. I'm sure you wanted to know all that. You're welcome.
06 June 2012
Good Night, House
Good night, patio
Good night, chairs
Good night, laundry drying
out in cool night air
Good night, barking dogs
Good night, yowling cats
Good night, swooping thing
that I think is a bat
Good night, little kitchen
all crusty with use
Good night, moldy bathroom;
you've seen much abuse
Good night, peeling paint
and good night, crumbling wall
Good night, all the knick-knacks
still lining the hall
Good night, plastic Jesus
asleep in a drawer
Good night, framed old placemat,
whatever you're for
Good night, tiny washer
Good night, clogged-up shower
Good night, Gilmore Girls on TV at all hours
Good night, green-roofed school
living across the street
Good night, all you neighbors
I never did meet
Good night, open fields
just dripping with stars
Good night, walking path
Good night, window bars
Good night, pokey mattress
Good night, dirty floors
Good night, quiet pueblo
Good night, creaking door
Good night to the past year
teeming with memoranda,
Good night, little house
here on Calle La Manda
Good night, chairs
Good night, laundry drying
out in cool night air
Good night, barking dogs
Good night, yowling cats
Good night, swooping thing
that I think is a bat
Good night, little kitchen
all crusty with use
Good night, moldy bathroom;
you've seen much abuse
Good night, peeling paint
and good night, crumbling wall
Good night, all the knick-knacks
still lining the hall
Good night, plastic Jesus
asleep in a drawer
Good night, framed old placemat,
whatever you're for
Good night, tiny washer
Good night, clogged-up shower
Good night, Gilmore Girls on TV at all hours
Good night, green-roofed school
living across the street
Good night, all you neighbors
I never did meet
Good night, open fields
just dripping with stars
Good night, walking path
Good night, window bars
Good night, pokey mattress
Good night, dirty floors
Good night, quiet pueblo
Good night, creaking door
Good night to the past year
teeming with memoranda,
Good night, little house
here on Calle La Manda
03 June 2012
Like Sands Through the Hourglass
These are the days of our lives. ("Dogs of our wives," as my dad used to say disparagingly when the soap theme crawled through our kitchen after the Noon Show. I don't miss having a TV.)
My roommate is asleep in the room next to mine. My friend Alex is asleep in the guest room. Regina Spektor is singing for me as I start to pack all this junk into my 2.5 suitcases, which somehow all came in under the 50-pounds-each limit last year but could hardly do that now due to the sheer volume of scarves. And I still have to do laundry. Why do Post-Its multiply like rabbits under my care? Is this Norwegian phrasebook going to be of any use? There's the pile of stuff I have to send to friends but never do because the post office still intimidates me. Mom's gonna Skype with me later, and I'm going to tell her which clothes, which shoes to bring when she visits later this month, and my goodness, where did I get all this stuff?!
I graduated from high school ten years ago, the only one in my class of five who wept all of May 2002 away, afraid to leave North Dakota while they were all vowing to get out as soon as they can. I think I'm the only one who attended an out-of-state college, and I'm definitely the only one outside of a two-state region, which doesn't really tell you much except that our plans often end up fooling us.
I cried for a full night when high school ended, and during Christmas break of my freshman year, I cried again that I couldn't go back because nothing was the same, I didn't know anyone, college was nothing like home. Then, what do you know, four years later, I cried in the back of a van because Roseville was home and North Dakota was home and I didn't know how to make it all fit. I cried as Minot shrunk in my plane window, and I'll cry in a year when Camarma does the same. I don't intend to cry now as I shove all this junk into my suitcases, though, because I'm not going to miss my moldy shower in the dark little cave that is our house, or my barely-a-mattress mattress, or the parties that the neighborhood cats throw in the backyard. I am moving across town to a house that is cleaner and cheaper, so even though stories about my living arrangements will no longer be as exciting as they've been here, I also will not miss the bird/bat that sits above my door at night and flutters toward my head when I put the key in the lock.
Our kids graduated on Friday, six days before my friends arrive from the States, twenty-two days before I see my parents again, one month and fifteen days before Caitlin and I attempt a backpacking extravaganza. It's already next summer, the thing we spent all of last summer talking about: Next summer, we'll travel. Next summer, we'll know how to plan for school. Next summer, I'll have shoes that fit. I don't know that it looks like I thought it would look, but--again with the plans. Alex and I walked all over Toledo until our legs were crying, stayed up late until we were crying from laughter over stupid things on facebook. I wouldn't even have known Alex unless I'd moved back to North Dakota, and the girls that are coming on Thursday--some of my favorites--I wouldn't have known, either.
The seniors and their ECA diplomas are spreading out across the States and Spain, and I hope it doesn't take them ten years to figure out that things always change and you cry, but as long as you keep stepping forward, more life will be waiting ahead. Half the time, you won't recognize it; you were expecting something bigger and shinier maybe. But then you'll be packing a suitcase with all the stuff you've accumulated somehow with the money you've earned somewhere to meet the friends you've met everywhere. It won't ever fit completely in the suitcase. Still, life will make room for all these memories, pieces of paper, people. Somehow, your heart will peel open to hold as much as it can if you're not too afraid of tearing that you keep it closed tightly. It will fit.
My roommate is asleep in the room next to mine. My friend Alex is asleep in the guest room. Regina Spektor is singing for me as I start to pack all this junk into my 2.5 suitcases, which somehow all came in under the 50-pounds-each limit last year but could hardly do that now due to the sheer volume of scarves. And I still have to do laundry. Why do Post-Its multiply like rabbits under my care? Is this Norwegian phrasebook going to be of any use? There's the pile of stuff I have to send to friends but never do because the post office still intimidates me. Mom's gonna Skype with me later, and I'm going to tell her which clothes, which shoes to bring when she visits later this month, and my goodness, where did I get all this stuff?!
I graduated from high school ten years ago, the only one in my class of five who wept all of May 2002 away, afraid to leave North Dakota while they were all vowing to get out as soon as they can. I think I'm the only one who attended an out-of-state college, and I'm definitely the only one outside of a two-state region, which doesn't really tell you much except that our plans often end up fooling us.
I cried for a full night when high school ended, and during Christmas break of my freshman year, I cried again that I couldn't go back because nothing was the same, I didn't know anyone, college was nothing like home. Then, what do you know, four years later, I cried in the back of a van because Roseville was home and North Dakota was home and I didn't know how to make it all fit. I cried as Minot shrunk in my plane window, and I'll cry in a year when Camarma does the same. I don't intend to cry now as I shove all this junk into my suitcases, though, because I'm not going to miss my moldy shower in the dark little cave that is our house, or my barely-a-mattress mattress, or the parties that the neighborhood cats throw in the backyard. I am moving across town to a house that is cleaner and cheaper, so even though stories about my living arrangements will no longer be as exciting as they've been here, I also will not miss the bird/bat that sits above my door at night and flutters toward my head when I put the key in the lock.
Our kids graduated on Friday, six days before my friends arrive from the States, twenty-two days before I see my parents again, one month and fifteen days before Caitlin and I attempt a backpacking extravaganza. It's already next summer, the thing we spent all of last summer talking about: Next summer, we'll travel. Next summer, we'll know how to plan for school. Next summer, I'll have shoes that fit. I don't know that it looks like I thought it would look, but--again with the plans. Alex and I walked all over Toledo until our legs were crying, stayed up late until we were crying from laughter over stupid things on facebook. I wouldn't even have known Alex unless I'd moved back to North Dakota, and the girls that are coming on Thursday--some of my favorites--I wouldn't have known, either.
The seniors and their ECA diplomas are spreading out across the States and Spain, and I hope it doesn't take them ten years to figure out that things always change and you cry, but as long as you keep stepping forward, more life will be waiting ahead. Half the time, you won't recognize it; you were expecting something bigger and shinier maybe. But then you'll be packing a suitcase with all the stuff you've accumulated somehow with the money you've earned somewhere to meet the friends you've met everywhere. It won't ever fit completely in the suitcase. Still, life will make room for all these memories, pieces of paper, people. Somehow, your heart will peel open to hold as much as it can if you're not too afraid of tearing that you keep it closed tightly. It will fit.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)