The Final Goodbyes

How do I even start this? I'm not even quite sure. There is so much to say and so many thoughts are racing through my head. I suppose I should take some of Lewis Carroll's advice and "begin at the beginning... and go on till you come at the end: then stop."

The day of departure might've been foreshadowing the rest of my week. It was very stressful and it was by my own accord; I procrastinated. Packing all of my things as well as getting ready by 3 p.m. was no easy task and left my brain in a marsh-like state. When I recall it it was as if my eyes would glaze over most everything because my mind was too busy thinking about what I could be missing from my pack and what if I forget something and I need to fit just one more pair of shoes in and I won't get to say goodbye to some of my friends and I hope there's no traffic on the 405 and I hope the flight goes well and I hope this isn't overweight and oh crap this is definitely overweight and do I really care that this is overweight and do I want to lug two huge bags around and how am I going to travel around Europe and this and that and this and that. It was absolutely exhausting and that's not even half of it, really.

Nonetheless I made my deadline and successfully left my house at 3 p.m.. The freeway was surprisingly wide open and traffic was scarce to say the least. Once we reached LA my dad took us to a small shopping complex to decide on where to eat. I picked Johnny Rockett's as I knew it would be the most American food I could consume before I left the states. There wasn't much talk at the table. Of course some, but mostly reitterations of previously stated warnings of what I should and should not do. Eventually we found that our shakes and burgers and fries had done us in and it was time to leave. I didn't have any marks of sorrow at the time, nor did I feel that pain that comes with the impending severence from one's closest kin. There was a weariness about me, though.

We continued to listen to The Beatles as we made our way towards the airport. Although they remain a signature British group, they always seem to make me feel at home; I mean, I grew up with them. They would play on and on in our sitting room and echo throughout the house. I knew most every song and my whole family would sing along, all harmonizing like we were some sort of traveling family band. "Blackbird" came on as we entered the LAX parking lot and it was as if Paul McCartney was strumming for me on my goodbyes, bidding me to forge ahead and fly.

We entered the terminal, waiting for Hannah and her family to arrive. They eventually did and I ran out to greet them on the street. Their farewells were kindly quick and soon she was left to my own family and me. While waiting to check our bags, we saw some of our study abroad group. There were some shy hello's and some friendly smiles exchanged but nothing much other than that. We eventually got our bags handled, I having one overweight (which I was well aware of beforehand), and could breathe a little easier. To our surprise, however, they did not charge us when we came to the pay stand. My mom told me to shush as I didn't realize that they themselves didn't realize they had overlooked the extra charge. That was one little gift from God.

And then the time finally arrived; the time when I had to finally say goodbye. It wasn't so hard initially. I looked into my parent's faces with a queer sort of smile, that held concern and sorrow, but still leaked a sort of excitement for the future that was nearer still. We held tight to each other in our group hug until we released with the ever-present desperation that comes when every child must leave. They watched me as I went on my way, through the maze of ropes and up the escalator. It was upon that snail-paced machine that I finally felt that true sadness. It was absolutely movie-like, me slowly carried away up the escalator, watching my parents wave goodbye, my dad with a sad sort of smile and my mom blowing kisses with her red eyes made wells about to burst. It was seeing them like that that made me feel. I mean, finally really feel. I would miss them terribly and they would worry about me and I would worry that they would worry too much. It was nothing that I could help, though, so I pushed forward. At the top of the stairs I breathed hard, Hannah comforting me with laughter. We entered the line for security and waited. But, as if the whole ordeal of saying our poignant toodaloo wasn't bad enough, once more did I see my parents before they headed back home. They climbed up the elevator that put them right outside of our roped area. My dad pulled out his phone and beckoned us to smile. Of course, some airport security woman had to burst his bubble and yelled from far across the room with a "Sir!.... Sir!....SIR!" I pointed at my dad, but he didn't seem to think he was the target of ridicule. That made me feel even more vulnerable. But my dad, realizing the situation, strong as he was, only laughed as he tripped backwards behind the "Sterile Area" line. My face warmed, growing tomato red as I could feel everyone looking at my family and me. The moment passed and, for the last time, they said goodbye, waving, exiting through the glass doors and leaving me to my own devices.

It has been almost a week since this happened to me and a lot more has happened in between. I'll tell you, it has been no easy road. It seems doors have been consistently slammed in my face. I'm surprised how I have held up, though. I only shed a few tears and that was only for a brief moment; I have been stronger than I would have believed. Most of the girls in our group cried the first night, knowing home was no stone's throw away. And even those girls had the means of communicating with their families whereas I could not. But, that's a story for another day. Class is coming soon so I have to cut short here. I would say it's a good place to stop, Carroll, even though it is not the end.

Pre-departure Pandemonium

10 days. Only 10 days until I leave for England. We were discussing the novel The Golden Compass by Philip Pullman today in class and my professor mentioned us visiting a museum or something in a few weeks. Okay, it may not seem so impressive that she said we'd be checking out some sweet artifacts in England in only a matter of, like, 14 days but to me that just pulled me back to reality. It seemed so far off before. Sitting in the comfort of my home, going about the day as per usual, my routine seemingly uninterrupted, I felt like the flight over was eons away. Yes, well it is not so.
I must admit there have been some minor changes to my daily life. I've been watching an obscene amount of Rick Steves' Europe episodes on the different places I hope to visit over the next few months and my wandering thoughts have been occupied by stressful schedule planning, hotel, flight and other transportation options and, of course, my own fantasies of what new experiences, adventures and maybe even romances that could occur along the way. Most of this lucid dreaming happens at night when I'm in bed and everything is still. Although it doesn't seem still when your mind is racing on images and schemes and numbers and alternatives and people and EVERYTHING. It reminds me of this comic:

 

(photo taken from pinterest.com)

 

Every night. That has been me every night. And then, because my classes start in the afternoon, I sleep until 11:45 a.m., roll out of bed and make it to class looking like some mangy, unearthly creature saying, "I'm gonna stick you." Sort of like this....

"I'm gonna stick you..."

 

(photo taken from Google images) 

 

Now don't think that I'm all caught up on impressing my classmates. I'm more inclined to leave my good impressions on the British boys, preferrably an attendee of Oxford University who has a knack for Polo, acoustic guitar and can talk with a Keats-like charm. But I do take pride in how I present myself and well, I've been failing epically in that department for the past couple of weeks.

Obviously, I've been a little stressed, and let's be honest, who wouldn't be? I mean sure, I'm incredibly excited but with my friends constant procrastination on buying our tickets to different countries and me constantly second guessing myself I'm a little overwhelmed. Hopefully all goes well and smoothly. I can only pray that that is how my future will pan out: with ease. But only God knows if that is really the case. For now, this pre-departure pandemonium is tearing me apart and I am incredibly bushwhacked. The only thing keeping my feet on the ground is remembering that it is all worth while; it is all for the adventure of a lifetime.

 

 “There are times to stay put, and what you want will come to you, and there are times to go out into the world and find such a thing for yourself.”
―Lemony Snicket, Horshradish: Bitter Truths You Can't Avoid



 

The First Goodbyes

Everyone knows it's hard to say goodbye, even if it's only for ten weeks. I think it's the distance that's the most daunting. I had to say my first goodbyes last night. I didn't find it so hard. I mean, these days, technology keeps you connected no matter where you are. So, I figure, it's not like they'll really be so far gone 'cause they're just a Skype, Snapchat or Facebook message away. And then my friend says to me (one who will be at school and I won't see her until summer; one I had to say goodbye to last night), "It's not so much that we won't be able to talk, it's just... you're so far away!" I could only I think, "It's not like I'm dead. It's just a few months." But, I will be halfway across the world and whether or not I can say hello over text, it won't be the same as face to face, being able to hug or touch, or laugh in the same room. Maybe it's all an exageration; maybe it's all overdramatized and childish.
A few weeks ago, I was talking with two of my other friends and they had mentioned me going away. I, of course, replied with, "Oh guys, it's not that long!" To which they responded, "But we're afraid you're really going to like it there." And that made me think. Yes, I think I will really like it there. And hey, what if I find myself a special someone? What does that mean? They continued with, "We're afraid you're going to like it so much and end up living there and we won't see you all the time. Maybe once a year. Maybe not even that." I guess my friends are pretty dramatic, but it is a possibility. I am young and have a lot of life to live and moving so far from home at 19, permanently, that is, doesn't seem to be near on the horizon.
The point is that we all must grow up and part ways some day. Maybe it's down the street, a city over, a state over or even a country over or across the globe. We all break ties spacially, but that doesn't mean that we must part forever mentally. I suppose it all depends on how much you value the person. It goes back to when you split up after high school. You realize who your true friends are, right? It's who you make an effort to keep in touch with. And the effort is completely mutual. Those are the ones who last. They are the friends who you can count on for forever. No matter how near or far, they will always be there for you and wanting your company.
We'll see where life takes me and who will stay and who will go. But this trail ahead is set, as of now, for two: me and my savior. Maybe someday it will grow wide enough for three, and then four and who knows? Maybe five or six? Friends are special, but they do not hold your soul; they are not like a spouse who you become one flesh with or a child who you are put in charge of and they are nowhere near like that of your rock, your firm foundation, your savior who is, for me, Jesus Christ. They will come, they will go, and they will leave you with memories and marks, but goodbye's are inevitable. So hold fast to every lick of time that you have been blessed with special friends because whether for moments, days, years or lifetimes the first goodbyes have to come sometime.

 

 

 

"Ah, when to the heart of man
Was it ever less than a treason
To go with the drift of things,
To yield with a grace to reason,
And bow and accept the end
Of a love or a season?"

―Robert Frost, Reluctance