The Trip Home

"Please, celebrate me home,
Give me a number,
Please, celebrate me home
Play me one more song,
That I'll always remember,
And I can recall,
Whenever I find myself too all alone,
I can sing me home"
 - Celebrate Me Home, by Kenny Loggins 
 

Boarding was supposed to begin at 12:30 am, the flight scheduled for take-off by 12:55 am. As I stood in line I shifted under the weight of my backpack. From behind the check-in desk, a man leaned towards a microphone and made an announcement.
"The plane is undergoing an inspection. We are told it will be about another thirty minutes before you can board."
Around me, people groaned. I sat and read over the outline of a 'speech' I'd written for the next day, answers to interview questions I looked forward to presenting. I rewrote parts, memorizing it. Tiredness pressed on me, but also hunger. Finally I got up and bought a bag of peanuts. I sat and watched the front desk, watched people come from the plane with clipboards and confer with the stewardesses, as I ate peanuts methodically, two at a time. We finally boarded by 2:00 am.

I slept, if you can call it that. Around 3:30 am, dinner was served. I ate my tray of chicken and rice and salad and called it breakfast.

In Houston, I made my way through Immigration, my eyes blurry with sleep behind my glasses. "Please go to Customer Service," I was told. There I waited in line with a number of other people who had missed their connection. I had barely missed it, at that. Sadness swept over me, for I knew I would miss the window for the "Team Talk" interview, unless I managed to arrive before lunch was over. I received my new ticket and hurried through the inspection of my bags. I made it to the gate 15 minutes before boarding, enough time to take out my contacts and wash my face in a bathroom sink. I opened up Skype on my iPhone and called the man at the taxi service with whom I had arranged a pick-up. I informed him of my new arrival time before standing in line and boarding the plane. I spent the flight reviewing my speech and reading "Catch 22". Finally in Chicago, I collected my bags and tried to call the taxi guy. But my phone refused to connect to the internet, no matter what I did. Hauling about 130 pounds of luggage with me, I walked and walked until I found a payphone, strangely placed behind a huge flight chart, skeevily out of sight. When my quarters fell straight through the phone, I realized that though they are US currency, they were printed in Ecuador and are just different enough as to not be electronically recognized. I scraped up enough dimes and nickels to make the call. The phone rang and rang without answer, and without the option to leave a message. Frustrated, I hauled my bags awkwardly to a Starbucks counter and asked if they could give me change for a dollar. Back at the phones I deposited another fifty cents ... for nothing. I called the ITeams office but was told it was a bad number and received my change back. I walked outside and scanned the waiting taxis but none had the right insignia. By now I was both swearing and fighting back tears.

I sat and opened my laptop. Of course, Skype refused to load until I had restarted everything and let it update itself. Meanwhile I had only 30 minutes of allotted free internet before I'd have to pay, and it was quickly slipping away. All I wanted was to burst into tears, and I was afraid that when/if I finally did get a taxi, I would do just that. So I told myself to stop, to be strong even in this foolish time of frustration over being stranded and alone. Finally, Skype started up and I was able to call the taxi guy. When I met up with the taxi driver, he was annoyed at having to wait so long.
"I called you twice on a pay phone," I said. I still don't know if he never saw the calls or if they never went through.

When I arrived at the ITeams office and was shown to my apartment, I dropped to the floor in front of my suitcases the moment I was alone. I dug around until I found a snack bar, which I inhaled. It was 2:00 pm and I hadn't eaten since being on the first airplane. I gulped down a glass of water, marveling at how strange it was to be able to drink straight from the tap without purifying it or being afraid of getting sick. When I felt better, I walked across the hall and knocked on the door of the Snyder family. On my own door was a drawing from their young daughters, and a note inviting me to dinner. The moment I saw them, everything was a little bit better. We had met three years ago in that very building as I was preparing to go to Ecuador and they were starting the process of fundraising and moving to Spain. They had been going through an arduous visa process and were finally approved to fly out Christmas day. We had kept up via email, so getting to see them again was a delight. We hugged and talked before I went back to my room to rest. That night I went over and ate chicken casserole and berry cobbler as we talked and talked. They asked me about Ecuador and culture shock and language learning and what was the best and hardest things about living there. I asked them about how they envisioned life in Spain and the ministry and school for their girls and how the whole process of getting there has been long and tiring but good. We each wanted to know everything, because they and I have been on similar journeys with aspects which can be difficult for others to understand. Their girls drew me a picture and we reminisced about playing in the snow together three years ago, the first time I been in real snow.

The trip was all so mostly awful yet ended so well. Being back in the States feels strange at first: familiar but different. Seeing friends from a specific time and place helped me focus and not be overwhelmed, and was a beautiful welcome. When I flew home to Texas two days later, I was more ready than ever to see my family. We hugged and talked and ate Mexican food together. After a long trip, it was so good to be home.