My final morning at my house was not as restful as it had been during the rest of my winter break. Granted, it was not frantic like other departures I’ve had. I’m hoping that’s because I’ve grown up.
I made tea but there was hardly time to drink it, here I was, up and dressed at 10am, when I was usually still curled up under a comforter, humorously contemplating what my next semester would be like and dreaming up future projects. My mom and I tried to check my bags early online, only to be told to call a number, only to hear that I had to check in at the airport, since my trip was more than sixty days. Way more. Preparing for the worst, or maybe looking for an escape route, I thought they were going to question me about not having a VVR yet. A few more days and a delayed flight wouldn’t be the end of the world…
My dad got his car unstuck from the piled up snow at work, and arrived at the house to play the role of ever so important driver. The car ride to the airport passed like any other, but we parked and they walked me in, instead of the usual curb drop off. You know something is different when we pay to park at the airport. Check-in at the United counter was problem free, aside from my Dad and I fumbling and laughing with the passport scanner. It pays to be early, you get bonuses like laughter, instead of anxiety.
My bags were stickered and checked, the scanner staff had no issues with the box of tacks or xacto knives in my pencil case, tucked in the outside pocket of the suitcase next to the tape. I was in ‘nothing is stopping me’ mode, ready to whip out my AIB ID and say “Hey, it’s ok, I’m an art student!” Staples for basic class projects, scary to some, but oddly comforting to me. I picked up my backpack and camera, and tried not to rush to the security line.
We stopped near the dividers. I’m terrible at goodbyes. I don’t remember what we said exactly but I hugged my dad, as he told me how much he loved me. Then my mom, and she didn’t say anything. I thought that was strange but then I felt a wave of energy and we both rolled out a low cry. More words were exchanged but my brain put up a mixture of sadness followed by a defensive eraser. They told me to wave after I got through security.
There was no line. It was like the airport forces had decided to make this easy for me. I stood behind a pair of kids, heading somewhere warm, no jackets in sight. I handed the inspector at the podium my passport and ticket. She had a sarcastic look on her face, (like the character from Scrubs season 9) as she looked at my red face. In less than five seconds time I was all set, grabbing bins and tossing in my jacket, boots, hat, separating my laptop from my bag, like I’d seen heaps of business travelers since the nineties do it, when laptops actually had some poundage. I hopped in the spot in front of the metal detector, striped socks sliding, for once not thinking about the bassist from Spinal Tap in this situation. I was waved through and collected my things, reassembling like a pro.
I’d have been really mad with myself had I missed the wave, I nearly did in a rush, but didn’t. I kept it prompt and confident as the guards saw my parents wave, then saw my imaginary dust. Imaginary dust turned into a very real half cry as I sat down at the gate.
I talked with JV on Facebook and left lots of spazzy ‘these socks came from nowhere!’ style (she knows what I’m saying here) messages for Becca, trying to talk through the tears. My mood lightened and I tried really hard not to make fun of the two groups of sorority girls heading to a conference in DC, who had increased the volume at the gate within seconds. I was reminded of the mission trip I took to Arizona, where our crew was the loudest at various gates, playing cards and cracking jokes. Good times at age 16. I realized that not every sorogirl was as cool as my friend, Heather. I tuned out after they started talking about how fat their legs looked in the photos they were taking. I picked up reading material and a waterbottle for the plane ride, then waited in line to board.
The flight to DC was a breeze, I sat next to a maybe 20-something guy with a beard. Got off the plane, right onto the pavement, had an Almost Famous moment, and promptly decided it was time for one last Dunkin Donuts sandwich. 99 cent hash browns, you will be missed, but not that missed. I sat at my gate, C27, which I had eagerly written on my wrist while the DC pilot announced it onboard. I compared the gaggle of people at this gate to the gate at Bradley. Some similar business type people, but sprinkles of different languages here and there.
The plane was huge, and to my total joy, half empty. Now do you see why it felt like the airport was patting me on the back? I hear flights to Amsterdam are always packed. I had two cushy seats to myself for the whole shortened to six and a half hour ride, courtesy of tail winds. I watched two movies and zoned in and out as the clock ticked later. One was about Boston, reminding me of my friends, and then making me jumpy when I thought I saw part of AIB on screen, haha. The other had Zach Gallafanafis in it, who really does play the same amusing character all the time. (I still can’t say his name, Sarah!) I want to see him and Jack Black in the same film, I bet I could predict the plot and mouth the lines on the car ride to the theater. I laughed and slept and thought about a million things, picking at airline food and trying not to toss any cookies when the plane hit turbulence. I wish it had been light out, it would have been fun to see the Atlantic from that height for so long.
It neared midnight, or 6am, Amsterdam time. The flight crew prepared for landing and I started telling myself that a new airport isn’t that scary. Everything I need is right there. Passport check, baggage, customs, train, DONE. No deadlines pulling the hair on the back of my neck.
I got off the plane with everyone else, and we walked and walked and walked. I was happy to follow a group. The passport checker at the window I picked was being trained, he fumbled out a question and I replied with a fumbly answer. (“ask where they’re going”) “….oh! uh, where you going?” “Here, err, ahh, Rotterdam. Study.” What a pair of rookies. I’m pretty sure I was in the Europe only passport line. I felt like I got away with a lot that day.
I didn’t have to wait long for my bags, and loaded up a cart. I couldn’t tell if I was weak or the cart had a sticky wheel. I stared at the train ticket machine, realizing how tired I was. Someone cut me in line, I didn’t say anything, I was trying to remember the station I needed to get to. He turned and said something quickly in Dutch, all I saw were his polite eyes as I fumbled again, “I…don’t…ahh, I don’t speak here, English…” and he changed like it was no big deal. “You were first? In line?” I told him it was fine, still pondering stations, and wondering if I look Dutch. I got to the machine and mashed the buttons. There were options I didn’t recognize, so all the practice with the out of date online demo didn’t prep me after all. (Sorry, Mom. We tried!) I pushed my cart out through customs. I found the train area and still felt clueless. I found the info desk, which kindly directed me to the ticket desk. The ticket lady had no time for my nonsense. I get it, people on the other side of the window (or plates, in my case) can be really ridiculous. I told her I needed a ticket to Rotterdam BlAAAaaaghhkkk, forgetting to edit how I said it. Extra a’s still make me laugh, as much as I wish they didn’t. “Rotterdam Black, 11.20” she said. She saw my US credit card and debit card and started explaining the microchip system. I know about RFIDs, lady, I just wish someone told me earlier. Mildly cheesed due to sheer tiredness, I handed over cash. She printed me a timetable and said “Leaves at 7:27.” I turned and looked at my watch, which was on the :27. I nearly freaked and had a Spongebob in Rock Bottom moment, then I remembered my watch was 10 minutes fast. I paused. ONLY TEN MINUTES TO FIND THE PLATFORM!!
Standing at the top of the down escalator to platform 5-6, at 1:20 am Eastern Time, I clutched my bags, staring at my feet. Hover my boot over the moving step, bring it back, hover, back, hover, back. It felt like I spent five minutes perched there, trying to figure out balance. No one behind me to watch me dance, thank goodness. I finally tricked myself into catching it, catching myself on the way down. Mini gasping on shaking legs on the tile platform, I debated asking for help. I turned away from the sketchy guy, and asked a woman if she spoke English, trying to be polite, forgetting nearly everyone does. She smiled and said yes, and she and her boyfriend helped me decode the schedule. He cracked a joke about her not knowing the expression ‘change train’ and I felt very much alone. Luckily, the young couple silently made sure I shared a car with them.
The woman and I talked a bit, mostly just smiling. I was excited now, and anxious to change trains and get on with the last chunk of my ride. 20 minutes later I jumped and lugged onto platform 9b, after spotting it out the window. The trains in the Netherlands have buttons to open and close the doors manually…brilliant, right? Give people a little credit to help themselves and you’ll save a bundle on energy. Don’t worry, T, I still love you, and I never get tired of saying ‘Braintreetren,braintreetrean’. I thanked the couple and waited on the platform, glancing around but mostly watching for the train in the slowly rising sunlight. I got on and snagged a seat similar to what I had stood next to in the last car. I stared at the paint-marker graffiti that read “ILL” and then out the window.
[That’s all I wrote before I fell asleep again at the hostel]
The Cube Houses, where I stayed the first two nights
My room's windows
Bed was a little hard but the cool slanted walls made up for it
Installation art rod that goes 'through' the WDKA main building
School and area near school