My alarm went off considerably earlier than my tired head wanted. While my eyes remained shut, my hands searched the floor for the wicked cell phone that was emitting the obnoxious noise. I opened my eyes reluctantly and had a moment of confusion: where was I? I went through the options: my dorm room in St. Monica’s? No, the ceiling was too high. My room at home? Nope, that wasn’t it, either. My room in St. Therese where I resided when I was working on campus? Because I was looking at a ceiling rather than the underside of a bunk bed, I had to eliminate that option as well.
I rolled over and fell out of bed in a tangled confusion of blankets and pillows. Rather narrow bed. As I picked myself up, bleary eyed and tousle headed, a cacophony of strange noises hit my ears. Someone was talking, but the language wasn’t English. The piercing shriek of a small child’s giggle rang through the house. Little by little, I remembered the facts of the matter. I was home again after a three-week stay at school, but home was slightly different from how I left it. We were hosting two Chinese exchange students. They had set up camp in the living room and seemed to be settling in nicely. My aunt and two cousins had also come down for a visit, so we established them in my room. These circumstances necessitated that I sleep on a cot in Mum and Dad’s room for my 48 hour “pit stop” at home. I didn’t mind too much. The bed was comfortable, if somewhat narrower than a normal bed. I was definitely in the middle of the chaotic Grand Central Station that Mum and Dad’s room had become, but it was a short arrangement. In only a few hours, I would be on an airplane headed to the Pacific Northwest: Portland, Oregon, to be precise.
Now, anyone who knows me knows how much I hate flying. I am very prone to getting motion sickness – even walking can be too exciting for my stomach to handle. The logical conclusion from this premise is that if I fly to see you, I must love you very, very much. So love is what brought me to an airport that Tuesday afternoon, knitting madly, mumbling prayers under my breath in an attempt to save my soul, calm my nerves, and unclench the knot that resided in the place where my stomach had previously been located. Love for my dear classmate Theresa, who had invited me to share in her birthday camping trip. Clickity clack went the metal needles, looping the yarn into a Doctor Who scarf. I was intent on the project, but perked up my ears at the sound of an announcement.
“Good afternoon, Southwest passengers at Gate 2 heading to San Jose and then on to Portland!”
I looked up at the woman who was holding the mic and continued to listen for any pertinent announcements. She continued speaking about the flight status and the boarding procedure. Nothing unusual there. I was about to return my attention to the scarf and the Hail Mary’s when I became distracted by the further news:
“We will be holding an open mic event here at Gate 2 for anyone who would like to participate.”
