I felt a wave of relief as I walked up to my gate and saw a lot of Christians standing around the entrance. I was scarfing down a muffin, but my anxiety was increasing with every bite. I had thought I would feel well-traveled and confident, instead I felt like I was in another universe, not just the Amsterdam airport.
I was afraid I would be the only foreigner going to Uganda. I was worried I would stand out, vulnerable and alone. I still felt those things, but seeing the Christian tour groups, full of suburban dads and excited 20 something girls, made me feel better. One was even wearing a "fisher of men" shirt, or something akin to a common New Testament phrase. We boarded the plane and I fumbled with my ticket.
I was in the middle seat, something I felt immediately dread for as I pictured the next eight hours. I asked a stewardess if I could move to an empty seat, and she begrudgingly agreed, as long as the man next to the seat didn't mind.
I sat across the aisle from a Dutch man, he looked to be about my age. I instantly hated him, partly because he was wearing a crisp button-up, slacks and loafers, and partly because he was reading a physical newspaper in Dutch. He was also vegetarian, so he got his food first and probably got better food too since it didn't contain mystery meat (I understand my dislike for him is completely unfounded, but I was stressed and tired).
The man next to me was friendly and from Rwanda. He had been in Austin, Texas for medical training, and had visited Boston before he left. He was so excited to go home and had such pride in where he was from. He was extremely polite and slept for most of the plane.
I would go to the bathroom almost every hour, mostly to panic in that small room. I truly had some of the best hair of my life on that plane. I remember going in, looking in the mirror, and telling myself, I can do this. I'm going to be fine. I can do this.
It was a long eight hours.
No comments:
Post a Comment