Monday morning bright and early I leave my mother’s apartment for the last time, in while. On the way to the airport there’s a quick detour to my boyfriend’s house to pick up my glasses, which I always seem to lose, and then suddenly I’m at the United PDX check-in, frantically pulling unneeded articles of clothing from my suitcase and handing them to my always patient grandmother. It’s exactly 50 pounds. I’m already crying before I even before I’ve given my last hugs. Blurry eyed, anxious, and I little hungry I quickly make it through security. I see my mother and grandmother on the other side waving to me as we say goodbye for the dozenth time. Normally I’m embarrassed to even shed one tear in public, but today my face is stained with them and I don’t feel the slightest shame. As soon as they’re out of sight I hustle through the terminal and find my boarding gate with 10 minutes to spare. One OJ and an insultingly small bag of pretzels later I’m in San Francisco hustling to the international security line. Still starving. After I’m through I find exactly one option for a lunch, divey bar food. I scarf down the fries like it’s my last meal, and little did I know it would be the last normal tasting thing I hate for the next 24 hours. A three-hour layover turns to four. As soon as I’m on the airplane I quickly regret not eating two cheeseburgers and a milkshake, and upgrading to first class like my god-father advised me. The seats are tight and the food could possibly have been intended for prisoners, but somehow I managed to sleep between Moana en français and the close confinements with complete strangers. Then I’m in Paris for two hours hustling to Lufthsana. (possibly my new favorite airline) I think someone warned me that Charles de Gaulle was a trying, irksome experience, and it was beyond that. I think the sleep deprivation provided me the zero cares attitude needed to zip through that place without a second thought. Somehow I managed to hop from one Terminal to the next on a little train, with minimal directions, and trust me, my French isn’t that good. After finding a US to EU power converter, charging my phone, and letting my Americans back home know I hadn’t been abducted yet, I hopped on the plane, chugged a free wine, landed in Munich, hopped on the connecting flight, watched half of Kill Bill, and there I was in Düsseldorf. I thought I was so brilliant for beating the jetlag and adopting a normal sleep schedule, but two weeks later I’m still waking up at 6am and taking two-hour naps before dinner.
