Transatlantic Transit

This is an excerpt from a longer work, a travel memoir titled Wanderlust.

11/3/88 Amsterdam Airport
I just went through security, which included a surprise hand luggage check. It made me very uncomfortable and embarrassed to watch this impersonal official riffling through my dirty underwear, fingering my nightgown and thumbing through the pages of this journal—my most private, valued, and irreplaceable possession.

I held my breath, afraid he’d find the wooden pot pipe I bought for Barry—but he overlooked it. It would probably have been OK, since there was no residue in it anyway. Still, there were a few tense moments. The official looked at me searchingly, right in the eyes and said, “How are you feeling?” and almost sneeringly, “Did you have a good time in Amsterdam?”

Then I was pulled aside for a bodily pat down search. Of course, I would never be stupid enough to have anything on me. Still, it made me feel uneasy. The woman doing the search was very quick and her manner was professional. She rhetorically requested my permission, then had me stand with my arms up and my legs spread. She quickly and lightly patted me down in a very cursory way. Glad that’s over with. There’s nothing to do now but wait.

In an hour, I will board a plane from Amsterdam to London, then another from London to New York, and then the final flight from New York to North Carolina. At 8:30 PM Eastern Standard time (which is 1:30AM Amsterdam time), Jen and Tim will meet me at the Raleigh Durham Airport. They’ll drive me home along I-40, through the world of pine trees and Research Triangle Park, back to my little house with the cedar siding on Oak Avenue in Carrboro. I’ll sleep in my own bed tonight. My cat, my piano, my little black pickup truck and probably a letter from Barry will all be waiting for me.

There’s symmetry to this trip. Just as when I left North Carolina, I’m in an airport-- wearing the maroon and paisley jumper that Mindy gave me. Now, there is a small hole in the skirt where the burning ash from my joint fell in the Amsterdam hostel. Pinned to my breast is the little, round, orange and yellow dotted holograph pin that Barry bought me in Greenwich Village. On my legs is the added warmth of a pair of black tights I bought while shopping with Leah in Oxford. Atop my head is the vintage black, fedora hat, and dangling from my ears are the peacock feather earrings from the Amsterdam flea market. All of these special changes are now part of my travel costume.

I’ve taken on a new persona. I’ve led a scruffy, backpacking, temporary, transient lifestyle-- meeting others in passing, talking more about our journeys than our jobs and our everyday lives. I remember wondering before I left home, who I would be without my professional identity as a public radio person, and whether I would feel lost without it. I haven’t at all. I love this new role I’ve taken on.

This is something I’ve wanted ever since I visited Europe with my family as a teenager. I remember seeing these young, hippie backpackers. They were slightly older than me, and seemed to carry an air of adventure and mystery along with the packs on their backs. I envied the freedom of these longhaired ramblers who traveled by train, while I rode in the Saab with my parents—who repeatedly dragged me into cathedrals to look at naked cherub bottoms.

I feel very pleased and satisfied that I’ve finally had the chance to live this dream, regardless of the fact that at 31, I’m older than your average vagabond. In fact, most of my compadres were quite surprised whenever I revealed my advanced age.

I have a sense of pride in that I planned and executed this vacation entirely by myself. I completed my itinerary, which was actually quite respectable by any standards, despite my hippie travel style. I saw the National Gallery in London and the British Museum; the Louvre and the Musee d’Orsay in Paris; The Rijks and Van Gogh Museums in Amsterdam. I went to a London theater, a Paris jazz club, and an Amsterdam coffee house. I rode a train up the scenic coast of Wales, and got claustrophobically squished in the Paris Metro. I hiked up Arthur’s Seat in Edinburgh, hung a dollar on the wall at the Bulldog in Amsterdam, and let us not forget holding hands with Barry on the Brooklyn Bridge at sunset in New York City. It’s boarding time….

I’m now sitting on the plane. Soon I’ll be airborne to London. In a few hours I will lose my latest identity, my role as a traveler—and I’ll jump into the madness of being a public radio “personality”. I’ll be programming music for the marathon (our public radio on air fundraiser)—working long hours and lecturing listeners about how they need to call 962-9862 and do their part to support the station they rely on. Such a different life! The plane is positioning for take off. It’s only an hour flight with lunch, and I have a Herald Tribune to read. More later.

11:30AM Eastern Standard Time. En route from London to New York

I feel like I’m back in America already because this is Pan Am, an American airline, and everyone around me speaks with American accents. The announcements by the pilot and flight crew are all in English with no translations, maybe because it’s London to New York—Heathrow to Kennedy. I’ve set my watch back to Eastern Standard Time. It’s 11:30AM in New York and 5:30PM in Amsterdam. I’ve been traveling for almost ten hours now, with seven more to go before I step off the plane at the Raleigh Durham Airport to be greeted by Jen and Tim.

It’s good to have this in-between time, this down time—not to feel obligated to do more walking, more sightseeing, not to worry about maximizing my limited time to tour. I’m perfectly happy to sit back with my eyes closed and doze off dreaming of Amsterdam canals or Barry’s touch…

There is nothing to do but sit and wait for time to pass. When they bring me salted peanuts, I eat. When they hand me a cup of tea, I drink it. Soon there will be a movie and I will half watch it, depending on how interesting it is. I am far from the zombies at the International Hostel, but just as much of a zombie myself—sitting in a chair passively, dreaming of far way places, looking at my watch and imagining what is happening in them.

In Oxford, Leah will soon be going home after a day at the lab. In Bruges, the bar music is playing loudly and young people are conversing, eating spaghetti and drinking beer in the smoky, friendly atmosphere. In Wales, the stores are closing as shopkeepers go home for the day. In Amsterdam, the red light district begins to pick up energy. In Connecticut, Barry is aptly handling noon rush hour at the deli. In Chapel Hill, whoever is doing my radio show is getting ready to deliver the news.

I don’t want my writing to be seen by the yammering New Yorker on my left who is driving me crazy. I have to angle my body away from him, and shield this notebook with my forearm. If I close my eyes he seems to leave me alone, but if I’m writing or reading he makes inane comments with a talent for the obvious: “We’re going through some turbulence. Is your seat belt fastened?” All he has to do is look to see that it is.

I’m trying to engage with him as little as possible. Seven hours is a long time to spend next to an irritating stranger. He says his last name is Kafka, and he claims to have some relation to that Russian writer. It turns out he writes music education books for string players and is returning from a trip to England spent promoting his books. I made the mistake of telling him about my job as a music producer and arts reporter in public radio. Spitting all over me, he held forth on the monotony of Philip Glass, John Cage’s lack of structure, the beauty of Tchaikovsky’s 6th symphony and Shostakovich’s 5th.

He is a short, dark, hairy man—with such bushy eyebrows that they actually smudge his glasses. He described how their dog sings along when he and his wife perform opera excerpts at the piano. He quoted composer Edgar Varese saying, “Art is from the waist up. Entertainment is from the waist down.” He lectured and spat, and mentioned famous people he knew, dropping names and connections whenever possible. He’s trying to impress me, maybe because of my impressive job, or maybe because I’m trying to read an impressive book, ”The Magic Mountain” by Thomas Mann, if he would only let me. He’s amusing and pathetic in a kind of endearing way—but sitting next to him and not being allowed to read because of his constant conversation and spit spraying is driving me crazy. Turbulence, clouds, bumps, the fasten seat belt signs. I close my eyes again for privacy.

My flea market black hat is stashed under the seat in front of me. I hope it doesn’t get squished. My nose is raw from having the sniffles and constant wiping and blowing. The plane is bumping. There are dense, smoky clouds all around us. I’m less of a traveler every minute.

I feel the acceptance of my own life and routine returning. I think about going in to work for a brief period tomorrow, so I can collect my paycheck among other things. I think about paying the rent and the bills. I wonder whether the house will smell like stale cat food. I wonder whose been doing my air shift at the radio station, and whether Craig and his wife are adoptive parents yet. I wonder if Barry will be able to travel from Connecticut to spend Thanksgiving with me….

As we get closer to New York, I think more about Barry. The idea of having a life partner—for emotional and physical intimacy, as well as financial sharing makes sense. The next time I go back to Europe, I may have a lover with me. It will be an adventure too, but in an entirely different way. Now I’ve done the youth hostel bit. Maybe next time, we’ll stay in bed and breakfasts. I have to fill out a landing form now.

* * * * * * * * * *
New York, JFK Airport
I must admit, it does feel good to be back on American soil. I’m not a foreigner anymore. I just bought coffee at an airport cafeteria, paying in dollars and cents for the first time in over a month. I’m sipping from the steaming mug and staring into space. I’m so tired I’m almost stoned—a pleasant sort of disorientation. It’s actually 11:00PM for my body—yet strangely, I find myself in a New York City airport at dinnertime.

I’m still an anonymous traveler, sitting here with my backpack beside my chair, not knowing anybody. The atmosphere is still quite international. The announcements over the loudspeaker are given in a variety of languages, even the English sometimes tinged with an accent. There’s a German couple at the table next to mine, bantering over burgers and fries. A nice, young, European-looking man with a backpack smiled and nodded as he passed my way. We recognized each other as fellow alternative travelers—not tourists. I still look the role, and I guess for the next few hours at least, I still fit it.

I’m still wearing my travel costume. I still have my pack beside me. Within its gray canvass are all the personal possessions in my world. It doesn’t matter that they are mostly dirty clothes. I don’t want to give it up. It’s been my home, my security—part of me, my turtle shell. Soon it will be over. Already, it is ending.

When I first stepped off the plane into this New York City airport, my first thought was to call Barry. Being back here reminds me of my time with him. But he’s probably busy handling dinner at the deli now. Anyway, I’m so tired that I really have nothing to say. I don’t know even know how I’ll respond when Jen and Tim greet me at the gate at RDU and ask, “How was your trip?” How can I tell them that I’ve journeyed way beyond the bounds of my normal everyday existence? How can I tell them I’ve taken on a new identity?

I’ll have to summarize and trivialize and say “fine”. I’ll have to label the highlights and condense it into a few appealing sentences and stories to repeat at parties and to the people at work.

I hope that when I get home, I’ll have a little time to just absorb it all—let it sink in, remember everything. I’m so glad I kept this journal because I want to be able to conjure up memories in detail and hang out in them— to go back to the bunkroom with the faded Indian bedspreads, to walk down the narrow hallway and descend the steep stairs. I want to savor late afternoon light in the Luxembourg gardens, to hear a steam train whistle and click over the mountains of Wales. These are the kinds of details that people who ask me politely about my vacation are probably not all that interested in.

Here at Kennedy Airport, a lady in a bright red blouse smokes a Marlboro. A baby squeals. Outside the picture windows, the sinking sun glows over the pavement and glints off of the airplanes that wait at the gate. In the distance, Manhattan skyscrapers poke through pink clouds. An American Airlines jumbo jet roars off the runway.

The sun is setting. My trip is ending. One more plane, one more airport, one more car ride and I’ll be home.