Leaving One Country for Another

A couple weeks before I was set to arrive home, my mom sent an email alerting me to the fact that she would not be home on my planned date of arrival in Boston.  The next day, I received an email from my dad noting that he too would be out of town when my plane was to touch Boston’s terra firma.  Eventually, my parents compared notes and it was decided that I, only child and light of the universe, should receive a proper homecoming.  The ticket was moved back a day and I would spend the extra night in a sweet little hotel in the middle of London, allowing me to squeeze in a visit to my favorite museum, the Tate Modern.

I never made it to the Tate Modern.  Apparently egalitarianism abounds at Paris’ Charles De Gaulle Airport and, when five flights have converged at a Customs booth manned by two officers, priority is not given to those who have connecting flights.  Despite my persistent harassment of the uniformed young Frenchman who stood by, eyeing the flood of travelers with a look of ennui, I had to wait like everyone else.  Two hours spent on my feet talking presidential politics to the Cincinnatian behind me was just enough time to narrowly miss my flight.

With four hours to kill before the next flight, I did laps around the shops of the pearly terminal, stopping briefly in the pharmacy or mini-marché, before becoming overwhelmed and subsequently self-conscious.  The bookstore was the only spot that sustained my attention.  I finally settled at a small café and ordered a café au lait.  

Americans were everywhere.  Impudently speaking English.  Their presence was jarring…grating, really, and I consciously deterred a creeping sense of estrangement from “my people.” Nursing my coffee, I decided that international airports exist outside the constructs of nationality, culture, or even locale.  The structures themselves may as well float in the sky, planes docking into them as with space stations or ports.  How the passengers would then reach their ultimate land-based destination was beyond my imagination.

I arrived in London fueled by several cups of coffee, a preservative pumped airplane pastry, and two hours of sleep. Over the past twenty-four plus hours. Yet this confluence of conditions produced the most amazing and sustained burst of energy. I was sure that I was bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and sharp as ever.

The hotel was located in the midst of the city’s most bustling, and touristy parts—the Times Square of London.  As the cab wound its way about town, I became enthralled by orderly chaos that surrounded me.  The masses appeared to move in prescribed patterns.  Incredible.

The woman who ran front desk at the hotel had a decidedly French accent.  

As I deposited my two huge bags by the desk, she looked at her book, “but how long are you staying?”  Parisian.  

I explained that I had actually just been in Africa, or rather Senegal, for four months and was on my way home.  

“Ooooh,” she screeched.  “I am so jealous…but you don’t have the tanned!”

I said something about fair skin, but she just shook her head.  

“You were traveling?”

“Well, I did do a fair amount of traveling.  But I was also studying Sustainable Development and…” I hesitated, “French.”

“Oh! You speak French!” She exclaimed.  In French.

“No.  Not really.”  I said in English.  I suddenly felt very tired and confused.  

“I am French you know,” she said.  In French.  “I’m from Paris.”

I smiled.  “Oui.  J’ai pensé votre accent c’etait un accent Parisien.”

“Aaahhh!”  She leapt up and clapped her hands together.  “Vous parlez très bien!”

Wait, I thought.  What language was I speaking?  My friend did not allow me the time to give this question serious consideration.  

She really wanted to travel.  She wanted to go someplace warm.  Her family was originally from the Mediterranean and England’s climate simply did not suite her. She had now spent two years in London both working this job and as an au pair and her English was so very improved and what she really wanted to do was become a flight attendant.  

I decided we were speaking French and encouraged her in her dreams, saying that we could become flight attendants together and travel the world.

She started going over the details of becoming a flight attendant—the airlines, the hubs, the destinations, the hours—before I cut her short and admitted that I had yet to go to University and that was really a priority.

After taking a nice hot shower, I took a long constitutional around the heart of London.  Giddy with excitement (or adrenaline), I was happy to be in a city that made some degree of sense and literally stopped to smell the roses.  Or lilacs as the season would have it.  

I found that I was unable, however, to enter of the stores whose displays I admired.  My interactions with people thus far had been very limited, or conducted in French, and I was still unsure of myself.  I wound up at a Starbucks near the hotel.  A nearly lifelong addict, I knew just what language to use and what to expect.  Grande soy chai latte.

I finally went back to the hotel in an attempt to sleep but instead, I went crazy.  

My whole body quivered with exhaustion and my eyes were firmly shut, but my mind reeled.  Or shorted out.  Or something.  I started hearing cockroaches.  Accustomed to falling asleep to the sound of cockroaches scuttling across my floor or gnawing noisily on my headboard, I became convinced that I had brought the cockroaches with me.  Unable to move because of fatigue, I tried to ease my mind by reviewing every Wolof word I knew.  And then constructing sentences.  And ultimately conversing, mentally, with myself in Wolof.  The nonexistent cockroaches ceased their nonexistent movements, but the quiet became unbearable.  I leapt out of bed without even fully opening my eyes.  I decided it was time for another walk.  Before I left my room, however, I kicked my bags several times and listened for scuffling.  None.

The sun was setting and the temperature had dropped, considerably.  The shawl that had previously provided adequate warmth was useless.  I resolved to buy something long-sleeved and substantial as all I had were a couple of very dirty long sleeved linen shirts.  

As most stores were closed, Victoria Station with its vast mall seemed promising. I found one of those generic cheap trendy stores and promptly purchased a sweater, immediately taking it out the bag and rejoicing in its warmth.  I still had not eaten at this point.  Sushi. Pizza. Bagels. Ice Cream.  All that I had longed for over the past four months was at my fingertips, but I was unable to commit myself, stop so long as to actually purchase something.  I recognized, however, that I go a bit nutty without food.  Cheese Shoppe read one sign.  I like cheese, I told myself.  I have not had real cheese in a very long time.  I think I would like some cheese.

The shoppe offered a vast sandwich selection featuring some of my favorite cheeses, vegetables, salmon, chicken…all on whole grain bread.  But I only seemed capable of selecting one. Spicy caramelized onion chutney (read: yassa).  I bought the sandwich, threw it in my empty shopping bag, and practically sprinted out of Victoria Station, all the way to what I had already deemed my Starbucks.  

There, left hand gripping a steaming grande soy chai latte for warmth, I enjoyed my gruyere, rocket, and yassa sandwich.