I arrived safe at home last night after 36 hours of travel. I want to fly back to Gabs today. My mood is lightened a bit by the fact that I passed my permit test this morning and have driven all over town since, but I'd really like to drive back to Botswana.
I almost didn't get back into the country at the Toronto airport. The US customs official asked me for a notarized letter from my parents, proving that I wasn't a runaway. I didn't have one - I've never needed one in the past. I'm sure the fact that I look nothing like my passport photo didn't help my case, but after a few stressful minutes of him hemming and hawing over my story, he let me through. Luckily my plane was delayed, otherwise I would've missed it.
I'm off to experiment with some Indian recipes for dinner... For some reason, I have a sneaking suspicion that it just won't taste the same.
18 July 2008
The (Travel) Gods Have Spoken
(written Wednesday, about 6:30 p.m.)
I enjoyed a pleasant flight to Johannesburg from Gaborone – I was pushing the fact that I was leaving far to the back of my mind, and I was preoccupied with engaging in discussion with the person sitting next to me. This man was also from the United States, and had a job which entailed travelling about Africa; he had just been to Botswana for the first time and for a short, three-day stay. He immediately recognized my Deerfield Academy drawstring backpack, and mentioned that he knew someone who went to Deerfield. I was really chuffed, and we talked for the entire flight. I mentioned that I was really sad to leave, and he asked me why I was so smiley, then. I replied that the fact that I was leaving hadn't sunken in yet, and I said that in the middle of my Heathrow layover I'd probably burst into tears and have the whole terminal looking at me funny. We landed, our goodbyes, and descended from the plane, boarding the shuttle which would take us to the airport from South African Airline's hangar. I stood, gazing out the window, repressing depressing thoughts of leaving, and mindlessly feeling in my bag to ensure the presence of my passport…
"MY PASSPORT!!" I thought. I elbowed my way off of the shuttle, as the doors were closing (it was all very dramatic) and dashed to our airplane.
"I think…I left…my passport," I gasped. The airline attendant handed the familiar USA-crested booklet to me. I visually relaxed with relief and, much chagrined, returned to the shuttle, which had waited for me (one of the ups of a small, African airport, is that they wait for you). I walked on, saying out loud by mistake, "That was embarrassing." The man who had sat next to me grinned at me as I waved my passport.
I smiled as I explained, "I guess the travel gods didn't want me to leave, either."
I enjoyed a pleasant flight to Johannesburg from Gaborone – I was pushing the fact that I was leaving far to the back of my mind, and I was preoccupied with engaging in discussion with the person sitting next to me. This man was also from the United States, and had a job which entailed travelling about Africa; he had just been to Botswana for the first time and for a short, three-day stay. He immediately recognized my Deerfield Academy drawstring backpack, and mentioned that he knew someone who went to Deerfield. I was really chuffed, and we talked for the entire flight. I mentioned that I was really sad to leave, and he asked me why I was so smiley, then. I replied that the fact that I was leaving hadn't sunken in yet, and I said that in the middle of my Heathrow layover I'd probably burst into tears and have the whole terminal looking at me funny. We landed, our goodbyes, and descended from the plane, boarding the shuttle which would take us to the airport from South African Airline's hangar. I stood, gazing out the window, repressing depressing thoughts of leaving, and mindlessly feeling in my bag to ensure the presence of my passport…
"MY PASSPORT!!" I thought. I elbowed my way off of the shuttle, as the doors were closing (it was all very dramatic) and dashed to our airplane.
"I think…I left…my passport," I gasped. The airline attendant handed the familiar USA-crested booklet to me. I visually relaxed with relief and, much chagrined, returned to the shuttle, which had waited for me (one of the ups of a small, African airport, is that they wait for you). I walked on, saying out loud by mistake, "That was embarrassing." The man who had sat next to me grinned at me as I waved my passport.
I smiled as I explained, "I guess the travel gods didn't want me to leave, either."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
