Leaving

My apologies for the state of this and the next post, they are not at all edited and were written while traveling or exhausted :)

I left from LAX on July 20^th. I made it through most of the family farewells without much sadness, carried through by my excitement for my trip. I had said goodbye to my grandpa, aunt and uncle, brother (who actually gave me a hug that wasn’t like a dead fish!), and my dad, when I turned to my dogs.

Dizzy had known today was the day. Either my attempt at explaining had worked, else he had noticed the luggage in my room and the regular event of spending the last night home in the big bed with mom and the dogs. First thing in the morning, which is usually when I leave, he was my little puppy dog, following me around the yard rather than going exploring on his own.

Having to say goodbye to them I found to be so much harder than the humans with whom I’d already made my farewells. Maybe the excitement was turning to nervousness, maybe as it grew later the trip seemed more immanent, or maybe the dogs were just cute enough to bring me to tears several times throughout the time I had to say goodbye.

We made it to the airport with little problem; we got up on time and easily found a place to park. In the airport, after checking in, things started to get definitively sad. On the verge of tears, my mom and step-dad took me to a sit down restaurant in the terminal, where I spent half my meal crying and holding mom’s hand.

“Its gonna be weird not having you here, Missy.” My mom said, herself starting to cry, the goal of waiting until I had left had gone out the window when I started breaking down.

“We got used to the cat being dead.” David raised.

It became a rather tearful affair, at least on my part, then my mother’s, and then my step-dad’s. But the good part about crying in the international terminal, is that nobody looks at you strangely. They just pretend your face isn’t red and blotchy, and that your breath is not so strained. Had we had more privacy, I could easily have cried much more than I did given a bit more privacy, but we had decided that we ought to move along, as drawing it out would have ensured only more crying and sadness.

I was doing fine at the gate, listening to Harry Potter and watching people, the plane, however, was more difficult. I had a window seat in an aisle of two, and happily sat down next to an Indian woman who had come down on a wheelchair before me. She spoke no English, and my Hindi was soon exhausted after saying “my name is Sedona” (Thank you Ahmed for teaching me that). I am rather certain I conveyed that I’m going to India to study in Delhi, but in the time it took to have this conversation, the plane was still at the gate.

It had grown dark outside when the plane moved away from the gate. I was stuck in a small chair surrounded on three sides by walls or furniture and the fourth by a person with whom I could not communicate. I was leaving. I was not happy about it. I felt lonely, trapped in a box. There is nothing familiar about an airport to hold on to; the lights on the runway mean nothing to me, neither to hangars or terminals, they are all unfamiliar. What I looked at were the cars. The cars on the highway were going home. My parents were in the car just getting home. In a car, I could get home. And I was watching the cars from the plane. The plane where I was in a little dark and lonely box.

All at once it seemed unfair. Some people lead happy lives, living at home, then moving five minutes away with a spouse who was their partner in high school. Some people have that luxury. I am the one who has to leave. They can live their full lives in proximity to their loving parents. I have to go to New Hampshire to grow; I have to go to India to come into myself, and here, on the plane in my dark and lonely box, I am struck for the first time with a twinge of my regret for my decision. At this point getting off the plane would involve a police car, or an ambulance. I look out the dark window as we take off; tears are falling down my turned and stoic face. I know I have to do this, but it seems unfair.

The flight was not bad, once I broke down and took one of the sleeping pills my dad gave me. That knocked me out for 6 of the 10 hours I was in the air. I was able to help the lady who spoke no English order dinner, and who needed some help with opening snacks and putting up the tray table.

The Munich airport is a rather interesting place, well, as far as airports are considered. Most of them don’t have a sex shop. At first I thought it was just lingerie, but no. Full on sex shop in the airport. I bet its duty free.

I was more interested in the many religions prayer and meditation room. It was small, wooden floors with a large wooden tree trunk in the center that went from floor to ceiling. People had written all over it, people’s names with various religious symbols, I love Allah; the trunk was covered but I saw nothing offensive. I didn’t stay long, but long enough to pray for safe travels and take in a moment of peace.

I wandered around the terminal a bit, getting some soup and juice. I considered getting a beer because I could actually order one, which I had never done before, but didn’t care enough, which is probably why I haven’t ordered one yet.

So now I’m just waiting at my gate, rather bored. So I’ll listen to Harry Potter, I think.