Going Home

My eyes and little pieces of associated brain interpreted it as a mechanical whale lying on an untroubled concrete sea. The closest I’d been to a plane in the last fourteen months was 35,000 feet away (they look so small from that distance), but now up close I could finally believe that this marvel was not only large enough for me to walk inside, but could loft me at least part of the 8,000 miles towards my home in the United States. It seemed like the biggest concentration of organization ever, entropy taking hardly anytime to scratch its head at this flying beast before it moved on to trouble some bush road or more susceptible, rusty lorry. All the apprehension I’d been feeling about going home over the last few days tripled at the sight of this winged leviathan… then disappeared completely when I heard that they served food and gave passengers entire cans of pop- for free.

You see, some time back I received a message from a human I like quite a bit saying he was going to get married to some chick. “Marriage,” I thought to myself, “is a wonderful thing. I must go to this.” So after selling my every vital organ, the airline exchanged digital money for a promise to take me home for a little over two weeks during my school break. Images of Dairy Queen, pizza pies, Cap’n Crunch, and Bacon had been pogo-sticking through my dreams since I received that promise.

When the evening to leave came, I presented myself at the airport and, with hesitant, dirty feet, shuffled across the tarmac and into the belly of the whale. Which was airconditioned. With TV screens. And had funsize blankets and pillows. “Why was I nervous to go back at all?! This is great!” Too busy berating myself, I of course greeted the hygienically exemplary Sterwadess in the most awkward way possible, probably not making sense in any of the three languages I threw at her then apologized in.

The next two days of traveling back were exactly the same as those first five minutes: fun and embarrassing. The airline had promised to get me back, but they did it in their own time. During my 27-hour layover in Brussels, my auspicious parents had reserved a hotel room for me in the center of town. After riding the train twenty minutes past my stop I decided to get serious and ended up finding said hotel in good time. Over the next day it would be my base camp as I sallied out between very long, hot, unnecessary showers to harvest chocolate and drink fermented things. “Sarah” who worked at a waffle stand turned out to be a great tour guide- even if it did get expensive and filling talking to her.  Brussels was gorgeous, mild weathered, and made me feel like a complete villager. At one point, skeptical glances from modern-suited fellow sidewalkers drove me indoors to buy a new shirt and clean flip-flops.

By the time I taxied to my gate at PDX a day later I felt like each of the last thousand miles had hit me in the face with a frozen water balloon. On the other side of the angry men in blue TSA uniforms, though, were my parents I hadn’t seen in a year, and after hugging them began the blur that has been my last two weeks. The wedding itself has its own, clearer set of memories, and I suppose I could account for the other days and nights, but it all seems to have flashed by. Frozen in my mind for a year, America was quick to thaw- identical to when I put it on ice with very few, very positive exceptions.

And now, after bacon, pizza pies, a walk at Alton Baker, good days, family, wedding rings, and drinks with friends, I’m left with a strange feeling of leaving home to go home.  One more quick year in Sierra Leone to get as much done as I can.