The Journey

September 10 (or as the British would do it, backwards: 10/09/12)

They say it's all about the journey. I disagree. In fact, I've always said that my super power of choice would be teleportation–– that way, I could avoid the journey all together. The journey to getting there is not half the fun; in fact, it's rarely fun at all. Especially when the journey includes a 12-hour flight, two 50-pound duffel bags (and weak arm muscles), no sleep, bad food and claustrophobic tendencies.

I looked and felt like a hobo walking through the San Francisco airport, with my rainboots (which wouldn't fit in my bag, but couldn't be left behind) and a heavy hooded jacket. My jacket pockets were bulging with the stuff I had to take out of my purse when the grumpy airport worker made me consolidate one of my bags. Apparently, you can't get on a United flight with a purse and a rolling suitcase and a backpack and a pillow (which had a journal, book, beanie, crochet needle and yarn, and pair of slipper socks stuffed in its case). Getting through security was a chore, and I felt prouder of myself for getting onto the airplane in one piece than I had graduating high school.

During the first 5-hour leg of the flight to D.C., I sat next to an Irish couple, and I spent a good deal of time chatting with the husband next to me about his grandbabies and their summer house in Spain and the weather in Dublin versus London. He had a soft brogue and kind smile lines around his eyes. When we got off the plane, they both wished me luck with a hug. Part of the reason I needed luck was because my next flight was already boarding on the other side of the terminal. A one hour layover is hardly enough time as it is, but especially not if your first flight is 45 minutes behind schedule. I already mentioned how much stuff I had, so imagine all of that, and now add me running across the entire length of that terminal (in boots and a jacket) . . . well, let's just say the last uphill ramp felt like Everest.

Seeing Sara made everything happier, and after an epic hug, we were two of the last to board the flight. Then, a ridiculously cute Manchester boy helped me stuff  (cram, shove, punch, heave, squeeze) my carry-on up into the overhead compartment. So, of course, it was definitely love right then and there.

7 hours of flight time and a bit of rough turbulence later, we were on the ground in Manchester, England, where it was gray and rainy. We gathered our baggage (now, Sara had as many suitcases as I did –– so double everything and we basically needed a small freight train to lug our stuff around), and met Malc outside, who was waiting for us with a sign. I've never been picked up at the airport with a sign before, so I immediately liked him. Malc and his wife Karen are friends of Sara's church friends from back home, and it was nice to be picked up by a friendly face. We steered our stuff out into the parking structure, where we saw his car. Malc was driving a Spider –– and if the name doesn't already give this away, it was a peanut of a car.

Being the gracious man that he is, Malc did not say a word, but gravely set about finding a way to fit all the bags into the convertible. It was like a jigsaw puzzle, but we finally managed it. It was touch-and-go getting the roof of the car up, and I have to admit, I genuinely didn't think the roof would clear the tower of suitcases. I was wedged in about a foot of space in the back seat, and could not see out of any window, while Sara was in the front seat with a 50-pound duffel on her lap.

Malc drove us to his flat for lunch, which is situated in a charming village over a pub. They had a springer dog named Ebony who looked like my dog Sienna, with her graying ears and droopy brown eyes. They fed us chicken and potatoes and vegetables, which seemed the most amazing thing in the world, until Karen brought out dessert, which was scones with jam and clotted cream, along with fresh raspberries and chocolate pudding (though I'm sure they don't call it pudding here). We sat with the door to the balcony open, overlooking small sailboats bobbing on the lake across the street from their flat, talking of British and American stereotypes, and of travel and road trips.

I slept most of the way into Leeds, hardly able to keep my eyes open (at this point, it was about 7 a.m. according to our body time, and I hadn't slept since about 7 a.m. the day before). But when I was awakened by the polite instructions of Malc's British GPS, and able to see out a small sliver of window over Sara's shoulder, I was struck by how familiar it all felt. I had thought it would all feel foreign. After all, I only studied in England for 4 months the first time, and it was in quite a different part of the country. But, the funny-named motorways, church steeples, turn-abouts, green countryside, rock walls, and small cobblestone villages with pubs and antique shops, all gave me a comfortable feeling of nostalgia and homecoming, in a way.

Arriving at the college is all a bit of a blur. I remember thinking it all felt lovely and familiar, like a college campus should –– with lots of trees and brick buildings. We found our check-in point, lugged our bags into a small room (and of course filled up the room almost entirely with our zillion bags), and were warmly welcomed with packets of information, along with a paper lunch bag full of crisps (chips), a tea bag and paper cup, cornflakes, and a green apple. They take really good care of you when you're an international student.

Luckily, we were able to move right into our flat.  Even though we completely pissed off a taxi driver with all our bags (seriously, he was so miffed when he saw all our stuff), with 2 trips we were finally able to get everything up the narrow staircases, through multiple fire doors (with all this rain, why such concern for fire safety?), and into our new accommodation. Our flat is in a "block," surrounded by other brick houses full of students. We share the 5-bedroom flat with 3 other students, two boys and a girl. They are all from Brazil, but haven't arrived yet. We have a lovely kitchen ––which already had a hot pot in it!–– and cozy rooms. My comforter was vacuum-packed in my carry-on, which was a huge pain while packing, but now seems like the best idea ever. Right after a shower, I got to go straight to sleep under my fluffy duvet.

And best of all, my pillow still smelled of home even after 2 days of travel, making me feel closer to everyone somehow.

I have to say that when you do arrive at your destination, it makes all the stressful parts of the journey seem worth it. That 100+ pounds of stuff you just lugged across country fits easily into your closet (and makes you wonder why you didn't bring more?), your bed is like heaven, a shower never felt so good, and you begin another journey –– the journey of making a new place feel like home.

Also, I decided that the next time I move overseas, I am shipping all my stuff.