"You see, I told you it would only be a couple of seconds and you'd be back here."
I hadn't realized I was holding my breath until I exhaled at the sound of Jason's voice from the used book counter. I had been back in America for just over 14 hours and my first shift at work was about to start.
The night before I arrived in Seatac while it was still dark. My sister and brother-in-law settled me in their house, where we chatted for a few minutes before I passed out on their couch. By morning they were gone. I had two dogs to walk and needed to navigate my way from West Seattle to the University district. While walking the dogs a car pulled up along side me and a strange woman asked me for directions- in English. I smiled and apologized for not being able to help her. By the time she drove off I remembered my iphone had google maps, but it was too late.
After leaving Burkina, I'd flown to Casablanca where I spent all 20-odd hours of my layover in the airport. I didn't have a lot of money left and I did have several very heavy bags, and Casablanca isn't on the list of Moroccan cities I feel comfortable navigating on my own (as I've never been outside the airport.) I elected to stay inside, linger creepily near electrical outlets, and watch some episodes of True Blood the delightfully awful TV show that Chev had gotten me hooked on and Rob had allowed me to steal all 4 seasons off of his hard drive. I watched TV, I read, I drank coffee and ate croissants. For all of its charm, the Casablanca airport is not a vegetable-friendly place (I found menus that included salads but no single place that actually had the ability to make or serve a salad.) By the time I got to Spain I was in desperate need of the salad, tortilla and tomato juice that I spent nearly half of my total worth in Euros on. I had about 12 hours until my flight, so I found a cozy place to sleep and watched some more True Blood. At this point, I should add, the only white people I've seen since I left Chev are either vampires, shape-shifters or Anna Paquin. I'd also had very little sleep on some very hard floors and quite a lot of dramamine. So when an Iberia Air employee with an unfortunate combination of pale skin, gaunt cheeks and really unflatteringly dark make-up took my boarding pass, I had a brief moment of hesitancy about getting too close to her.
My blood happily un-sucked (to my knowledge) I boarded the plane to Chicago. It was a long flight, half-empty, and the kind British woman in my row relocated to another row so that we could both stretch out and sleep. The food they served me (vegetarian meals being, apparently, synonymous with vegan) was almost exclusively vegetable, a welcome change from airport food. I arrived in Chicago, surrounded by the unusual chatter of English. While I'd gotten quite good at tuning out the chatter of Arabic, French, and any number of Burkinabe languages, English was such a strange combination of unfamiliar and stunningly comprehensible that I couldn't tune out the thousands of conversations I could suddenly understand.
The first test came just after customs. It was a small, brightly-lit place selling vegetables and eggs on round bread rolls with holes in the middle. I ordered my sandwich, and approached the cashier. He said some numbers to me and I handed him a small gold rectangle with some numbers on it. I eyed him suspiciously waiting for him to reject this clearly made up form of payment. He swiped the card through his computer and handed me my receipt. I continued to stare at him with deep skepticism so he added a slightly confused sounding "have a nice day?" I moved on, consuming my bagel in a corner and cursing O'hare for being yet another airport without free wifi (thank you, sea-tac, for making me a spoiled brat of a traveller.) Then I remembered my cell phone had internet and would actually work since I was no longer overseas. This stunning revelation entertained me for most of the rest of my 8 hour layover.
Before boarding my last flight home, I remembered that America Airlines doesn't believe in feeding its customers. I gathered my things and abandoned my corner, heading to my gate, the lovely K-4. There, next to the gate, was the single most beautiful sight I've ever seen.
In glowing, alien-bright letters, it said Burrito Beach. I almost cried with joy as I ordered my veggie burrito, while the annoyed woman working the counter glared at me. I had waited all summer for this moment.
Jason came around the used book counter and hugged me. He wasn't a dream. I was really home. From there I went to each department, strangely feeling like I'd both been gone for years and never left at all. Coworkers hugged and questioned and complimented me on my tan. One particularly perceptive friend noted that I looked like I'd figured out some important things while I was away. I hope she's right.
I've been back for about two weeks now, and I've had a total of two days off since then. I wanted to work as much as possible (being both completely broke and in need of a new apartment.) Most of my belongings are in boxes in my sister's basement and the idea of going through them is just too exhausting to manage. I'm finally starting to get over the culture shock of being back. Every time I see one of my classmates from Morocco I can feel myself getting calmer, more relieved. It isn't that I'm not happy to see my friends back home, but sometimes the whole summer feels like I dreamt it, like I was only gone for a few seconds, and seeing Kristi or Devin or Ryan or Zoe reminds me that, at the very least, it was a dream we all shared for a little while.
I hadn't realized I was holding my breath until I exhaled at the sound of Jason's voice from the used book counter. I had been back in America for just over 14 hours and my first shift at work was about to start.
The night before I arrived in Seatac while it was still dark. My sister and brother-in-law settled me in their house, where we chatted for a few minutes before I passed out on their couch. By morning they were gone. I had two dogs to walk and needed to navigate my way from West Seattle to the University district. While walking the dogs a car pulled up along side me and a strange woman asked me for directions- in English. I smiled and apologized for not being able to help her. By the time she drove off I remembered my iphone had google maps, but it was too late.
After leaving Burkina, I'd flown to Casablanca where I spent all 20-odd hours of my layover in the airport. I didn't have a lot of money left and I did have several very heavy bags, and Casablanca isn't on the list of Moroccan cities I feel comfortable navigating on my own (as I've never been outside the airport.) I elected to stay inside, linger creepily near electrical outlets, and watch some episodes of True Blood the delightfully awful TV show that Chev had gotten me hooked on and Rob had allowed me to steal all 4 seasons off of his hard drive. I watched TV, I read, I drank coffee and ate croissants. For all of its charm, the Casablanca airport is not a vegetable-friendly place (I found menus that included salads but no single place that actually had the ability to make or serve a salad.) By the time I got to Spain I was in desperate need of the salad, tortilla and tomato juice that I spent nearly half of my total worth in Euros on. I had about 12 hours until my flight, so I found a cozy place to sleep and watched some more True Blood. At this point, I should add, the only white people I've seen since I left Chev are either vampires, shape-shifters or Anna Paquin. I'd also had very little sleep on some very hard floors and quite a lot of dramamine. So when an Iberia Air employee with an unfortunate combination of pale skin, gaunt cheeks and really unflatteringly dark make-up took my boarding pass, I had a brief moment of hesitancy about getting too close to her.
My blood happily un-sucked (to my knowledge) I boarded the plane to Chicago. It was a long flight, half-empty, and the kind British woman in my row relocated to another row so that we could both stretch out and sleep. The food they served me (vegetarian meals being, apparently, synonymous with vegan) was almost exclusively vegetable, a welcome change from airport food. I arrived in Chicago, surrounded by the unusual chatter of English. While I'd gotten quite good at tuning out the chatter of Arabic, French, and any number of Burkinabe languages, English was such a strange combination of unfamiliar and stunningly comprehensible that I couldn't tune out the thousands of conversations I could suddenly understand.
The first test came just after customs. It was a small, brightly-lit place selling vegetables and eggs on round bread rolls with holes in the middle. I ordered my sandwich, and approached the cashier. He said some numbers to me and I handed him a small gold rectangle with some numbers on it. I eyed him suspiciously waiting for him to reject this clearly made up form of payment. He swiped the card through his computer and handed me my receipt. I continued to stare at him with deep skepticism so he added a slightly confused sounding "have a nice day?" I moved on, consuming my bagel in a corner and cursing O'hare for being yet another airport without free wifi (thank you, sea-tac, for making me a spoiled brat of a traveller.) Then I remembered my cell phone had internet and would actually work since I was no longer overseas. This stunning revelation entertained me for most of the rest of my 8 hour layover.
Before boarding my last flight home, I remembered that America Airlines doesn't believe in feeding its customers. I gathered my things and abandoned my corner, heading to my gate, the lovely K-4. There, next to the gate, was the single most beautiful sight I've ever seen.
In glowing, alien-bright letters, it said Burrito Beach. I almost cried with joy as I ordered my veggie burrito, while the annoyed woman working the counter glared at me. I had waited all summer for this moment.
Jason came around the used book counter and hugged me. He wasn't a dream. I was really home. From there I went to each department, strangely feeling like I'd both been gone for years and never left at all. Coworkers hugged and questioned and complimented me on my tan. One particularly perceptive friend noted that I looked like I'd figured out some important things while I was away. I hope she's right.
I've been back for about two weeks now, and I've had a total of two days off since then. I wanted to work as much as possible (being both completely broke and in need of a new apartment.) Most of my belongings are in boxes in my sister's basement and the idea of going through them is just too exhausting to manage. I'm finally starting to get over the culture shock of being back. Every time I see one of my classmates from Morocco I can feel myself getting calmer, more relieved. It isn't that I'm not happy to see my friends back home, but sometimes the whole summer feels like I dreamt it, like I was only gone for a few seconds, and seeing Kristi or Devin or Ryan or Zoe reminds me that, at the very least, it was a dream we all shared for a little while.
Oh, Kelsey... it took me at least a year to get over some of those same feelings. And in some ways you are changed forever. Blessings on your re-settlement.
ReplyDeleteA dream is but one form of the reality you create believing in yourself...
ReplyDelete