28 May 2015
Inverness, Scotland, UK
A breath of air escapes my
lunges as my exhausted body slumps onto the worn black leather couch. My limbs
and torso are made of cracked glass, one wrong move from shattering. My pulsing
head turns to the wall, where I see a colourful, old-timey, map of the British
Isles. It’s strange to see it here. I know I’m going to the UK soon, but why is
this map here? My throbbing brain struggles to process the coincidence that is
this map, until I realise it isn’t a coincidence. I’m in Inverness at my
favourite hostel.
The moment this realization
hits me, I’m assaulted with a stream of memories from the past 24 hours.
They’re disjointed and sharp like shards of a shattered stained glass window.
- A nice man at the Scotrail ticket office in Edinburgh Waverly is telling me that I’ll be able to use the train ticket for the trip I missed.
- The smell of sweat and fear seeps from my pores as I wait on a chair by the immigration booth.
- My aunt Laura and I are eating a hotdog in Chicago, before everything went wrong – again.
- I’m riding the X100 from Edinburgh Airport into the city centre and telling Rachael they let me in. I feel numb, so very numb, but the relief in her voice almost makes me smile.
- My immigration officer escorts me to the bagging area, where I learn my checked bag is still in Chicago and my carry-on bags are ruthlessly searched through.
- I’m walking aimlessly through the sunny streets of Edinburgh, still in too much shock to appreciate how wonderful it is to be in the city I love more than any other.
- A deadbolt clicks into place, sealing me in a large room overseen by a window. I have access to a toilet, they’ve told me how to work the TV, they’ve offered me food, but all I can think about is the security guard’s voice telling me: “It could be hours.”
- I buy a sandwich from Oink, while wandering through Edinburgh before my next train was due to depart.
- I stand alone at the airport terminal in O’hare amid the other displaced passengers. We had been sitting on the tarmac for two hours before they pulled us off the plane. The sky over Newark is too stormy to allow us to take off, and I can feel the beautiful blue over Chicago, mocking me.
- My immigration officer sets a pile of folders and notebooks in front of me, knowing everything there is to know about my research and my book. I feel so incredibly naked, and I’m so profoundly grateful to be wearing my hat.
- There is a rainbow, no two rainbows, outside the window of my train car. I’m somewhere south of Aviemore, and this makes does me smile.
- I’m holding my head in my hands – trying not to cry – trying not to be sick. I’m certain they’ll send me on the next plane back to the US. It’s been five months, five agonizing months, and now they’re going to keep me from her. I’m so close and so infinitely far away.
- They’re out of the Jeans I like in my size at Primark, but I buy a pair, a size too large, anyway. Without my checked bag, I need an emergency wardrobe. A few new t-shirts, a new pair of trousers, some new pants, and socks – it’s all very me.
- My pillow is pressed to the window of the airplane, as my eyes open from a surprisingly restful and comfortable sleep over the Atlantic.
- I’m walking the streets of Inverness to my hostel like I had done it a thousand times – because, at least metaphorically, I have.
