Flying

Up until my twentieth year I spent my trips flying halfway around the world blindly following my parents. My sleepy eyes never had to seek out a gate number, and my watch hung uselessly on my wrist. It showed the wrong time until we reached our destination and the twelve hour time difference made it right again. I never cared; I had my dad to follow and my mom’s shoulder to sleep on.
The summer after my freshman year in college provided me with a rude awakening. I had to fly from Singapore to Pensacola all by myself. I was soon to discover that there was more to international travel than watching movies and sleeping, and I dreaded this educational experience.
Because of the recent tightening of security, I had to check in by myself on the day of my departure. The early morning sky through the airport windows was still dark, and my tired eyes sporadically steamed my glasses with the moisture of my unshed tears.
I felt like a scared little kid as I asked the lady, “Could I have a window seat the whole way, please?”
“I’ll check,” she answered with a smile.
She weighed my suitcases, placed the baggage checks on the handles, and went too quickly through my itinerary. I tried to read each boarding pass as she flipped through them pointing out my seat numbers, departure gates, and boarding times. Did I have a window seat? I didn’t even catch that much.
She handed me the stack and instructed me to take my suitcases to the security check. A young Malay security guard smiled at me, and I managed a tired smile in return. They took my suitcases and waved me through, as they always did with my family. I guess we didn’t look suspicious.
I rejoined my parents for the few moments before I had to go into the transit area. My mom’s tears had already started, and I couldn’t stop my own. I was relieved to bid them farewell and venture into transit on my own.
I had to find D-44. Where was it? I’d never bothered to look at the signs before. I realized with relief that the signs were easy to read. I found D-44 with no trouble.
My weary, tear-washed eyes were too blurry to watch the television or read, so I sat staring at the wall. When they called my row, I stepped into the semblance of a line and boarded the plane.
The stewardess directed me to my seat, and I was an old hand at this part. I stuffed my backpack under the seat in front of me, fastened my seat belt, and went to sleep. The eight-hour long trip went much faster if you were asleep—I’d learned this when I was nine.
As usual, I slept through all the movies and meals, and we were in Japan before I was ready. My boarding pass for the next flight gave the local time for take-off, what was the time difference? I stared at my watch trying to figure it out. An hour ahead or an hour behind? Or was it two hours?
I followed the crowd through the security check, then anxiously looked around for a sign telling me where my gate was. All the signs were in Japanese—how did my dad do it? Tears of helplessness sprang to my eyes. Rude Japanese! How thoughtless of them not to include other languages.
I spotted an English word—“Gates!” The word was followed by letters and numbers and arrows. I followed the arrow pointing towards my gate. I got there just in time to board.
Now came the long flight—twelve hours. It was crowded, as usual. I got settled in and slept. To my horror, a stewardess woke me about halfway and handed me a customs form. My dad had said nothing about this!
I read it over and filled it in to the best of my knowledge—I had to guess on some things, but I didn’t think they’d know. Then I went back to sleep.
My layover in Minneapolis was to be the most trying time of the trip. I had little over an hour, but I had to lug my huge suitcases off the conveyor belt (with a little help from a guy when I ended up almost getting dragged down the belt), go through customs, then return my suitcases to be checked in again.
I moved through this in a daze—it was now early morning by my clock again. Again I got to my gate just in time to board. One more stop in Memphis and I was home free.
The flights from Minneapolis to Memphis, and then from Memphis to Pensacola were barely flights at all. We merely took off and then landed.
I wasn’t excited to get to Pensacola, but I was excited for the trip to be over. My backpack had seemed to gain about twenty pounds during the trip, and I bent over under the weight as I walked into the airport.
There waited my brother and our friend Steve. I collapsed into my brother’s arms and felt like crying.
All that hard work only to get to America.