Getting Home

I remember sitting here July of 2008, just a few yards away from where I am now. Going through security at the Rochester International Airport was like crossing one of those laser-gel walls you see in scifi movies- it sucks you in spits you into a totally different place, to complete some mission, and doesn't let you go back until you've succeeded. All the wild emotional electricity jumping through my body was untamed and incomprehensible. Not quite knowing what to do with myself, I sat down to write. Just to quiet my thoughts, or at least streamline them on a page so I could attempt to make sense of what was happening to me.
Now 18 months later, I'm back on the same embarkment- Rochester to New York to Paris to Bamako and ultimately, Dombila. A lot has changed since then. But being home, immersed in loved ones, has made it clear that the countless blessings I have in my life are as steady, strong, and even more abundant as before.
I had only started counting down the days until my trip in the 50s. My anticipation was surely evident to the people of Dombila who had to listen to me announce “It's only 2 weeks and four days until I go to Ameriki!!” Then one night I was finally there, checking in to the Bamako airport, giving my last farewell blessing in Bambara and bouncing in my seat with excitement. My sister was to pick me up in Rochester and we would drive thought the sparkling snow to 1880 Hickory Lane where my dad would be tending to a wood fire, my mom making a warm, home cooked meal, and my dogs lounging on the oversized green cabin couches.
The picturesque moment was delayed by about 9 hours because of a series of adventures in transit. The Bamako- Paris plane was still delayed from the awful Paris snowstorms, and we weren't able to leave until an hour and a half past scheduled. This got me to the help desk in Charles de Gualle at 8:17 am for my 8:23 flight to New York.
“I think I need to change my flight,” I told the lady.
“Well, I can put you on a later flight, but you may be able to make it if you try. It's a little delayed and they're still boarding.”
Pumped with adrenalin, I saw some other folks running toward the gate. “New York?” I asked.
“Yep.” And I was soon running alongside folks. Relieved to reach the gate on find people still filing in, the ticket collector halted my approach.
“Wait,” he said and proceeded to explain that due to all the delays they were bumping in people from other flights. I watched the man in front of me skip gleefully into the boarding ramp with the last ticket to NYC. So then it was me and the Moores, an American family living in Abidjan, Cote d'Ivoire for the past 6 months. Not so bad- we got lunch vouchers and I savored my first meal in the Western World (a mozzarella/tomato/ pesto sandwich on hearty hone wheat bread with rich dark hot chocolate), went to the cleanest bathroom I'd seen in a long time, and exchanged living in Africa stories with the Moores and their 3 school-aged children. Snow, lots of bundled up white people, this is starting to look familiar.
We made it on a 12:00 flight out, sat on the runway for 2 hours, and 10 hours later arrive in NYC, well past 5pm EST. Expecting to be home at 2pm, I instead shared my first dinner in the states with another West African PCV I met on my plane- a scrumptious twix bar from the vending machine. Kara and I watched the conveyor belt for an hour and a half before an airport guy announced to the dozens of stragglers from the Paris flight, “Your bags aren't coming.”
He herded us to another line as I watched it get dark outside. I'm going to be spending the night in New York, I concluded. After finding out that I could call to report my lost luggage later, I left the scene of the crime to see what JetBlue could do for a lonely Rochester-bound girl.
You know what I was looking forward to the whole time? Being in a public place where I wasn't the only white person and everyone wasn't staring at me. Well, JFK is full of people of plenty of different races, but I felt that people were still staring at me. Among well-outfitted travelers with their trendy scarfs and jackets and oh-so-easily mobile luggage, here's this disheveled girl in dirty sneakers, prototypical blue medical scrubs and a tee-shirt nonetheless. Carrying- a cardboard box of awkward size and held together by a wrapping of an assorted tape. Its not a bomb, I swear. (It was mostly Caroline's shea nuts that I've been instructed to forward). My other bag, they told me, would be sent to my home in a couple of days. (I would be waiting for 10 days it later turned out, unsure if it was lost forever.)
This is the point that I just wanted to fall over and die. I don't even know how much time passed while I was waiting in the JetBlue line. Hours perhaps. Just packed with people. And they kept playing “I'll be home for Christmas” on repeat. Eventually, I thought. Months of transport hell has seasoned me to the annoyances of travel, but even so, I was completely exhausted, Outrageously sleep deprived I wormed my way through the check-in-line, giving my cardboard box a little kick every moment I crept forward. There's a guy calling upcoming flights so people can sneak in front and not be delayed and further. Compared to some of these weary travelers in my vicinity, I've had it pretty good. Blizzards everywhere the weekend before Christmas. Just our luck.
“Rochester,” he calls.
“Rochester!” I excitedly burst out, scooting toward the front. Only problem- I don't have reservations for the 8:50pm flight. After being sent here and there and hopefully watching as some guys typed away on their computers.
“There's one more seat.” He printed me out the ticket. “But you better hurry.” Easier said than done when you still have baggage check and security. Once through, I'm running again. I reach the gate. Empty. “Boarding for Rochester:” the screen reads, “CLOSED.”
My face drops.
“Has the plane taken off yet?” I ask the tired man who strolls to the counter.
“What is your name?” he shoots me a interrogating look.
“Emily Hurley!” I shove all of my documents at him and hold my breath when he exclaimed them.
“Miss Hurley,” he looks up, “Please make your way to the aircraft.”
I'm grinning as I run down the breezeway and eye seat 26A, the one empty place in the very back of the small plane. I take a deep breath. I'm Going Home.
My lucky break gave me a second wind that allowed me to chat excitedly about the homeland with Jeff, the guy next to me who reintroduced me to some great things like new cell phones and chewing gum.
Then it was the landing. It's Rochester. It's my adorable sister. Finally. It's a winter jacket. It's road signs and Christmas lights. It's Honeoye Falls. It's the driveway, the soft cabin lights. It's Mom. It's Dad. And Hudson and Lilly. It's a Christmas tree and a fire. It's a few tears.
It's home.