Never Walked In High Heels

             I wake up. That sort of heat that comes upon you when you haven’t gotten enough sleep is radiating through every inch of my body, particularly my eyes. I promise myself once again that the next time I have to do this, I will get more than four hours of sleep. I stumble into the bathroom and try to wash my face with what remains on the sink. Unbelievable. Going downstairs and facing the rest of the day seems completely unfathomable at this point. I get dressed seriously wondering where my toothbrush has gone to before I remember that I’ve packed it away. 

              I climb downstairs, stumble into the kitchen where my roommate has made breakfast.  He says, “Good morning, love.”  And I can’t be bothered to reply.  Fifteen minutes later the driver comes and comments on the fact that I only have one bag.  I’m in transit between two very different lives, neither of which overlap, even when it comes to clothing. 

              The outside is cold and gray. The sky has been that exact same color for weeks. We weave in and out of morning traffic trying to guess which tunnels that cross the river are closed, which ones are open. It begins to rain. I begin to wake up and do a mental checklist in my head. Passport, wallet, itinerary, American Express card.  Technically with these four things, the world should be mine. The thing that brings me out of my morning stupor is the fact that I am slightly OCD. So even when I am holding all four items in my hand, I still don’t believe that I have them.

              Get to Gatwick, and the rain lets up. The sun breaks through just a tiny bit. It’s cold, and I refuse to wear a coat. Later today I won’t need a coat, so why bother bringing one now? Approaching the check-in desk repeating every five minutes, “Passport, wallet, itinerary, cell phone.” The woman at the desk looks at me funny, first because I’m in a wheelchair. This somehow is ground-breaking news for her.  Once we get over that hurdle, she is shocked to find that I only have one bag. Now she has a serious problem. The government has told her to be on the lookout for anyone who is different and not checking any baggage, which I perfectly fit the description of. She sends me through heavy duty security.

              The female security guard decides to either pat me down or feel me up, I’m not sure which direction she is going. All I can think about is how much I would really appreciate a cup of coffee now. They take every single thing out of my carry on bag mentioning that my bag is particularly heavy. I get jokes about how I must be one of those high-maintenance travelers. Coffee.  The only thing that is keeping me from not exploding at this point is coffee. And the fact that everything happens the exact same way everytime I go home.

              Through security. I’m in a part of the airport which is called, “The Special Assistance Area.”  This name is particularly British, and thus completely non-descriptive. I prefer to call it the “Cripple Corner,” where they shuffle off anyone who has any sort of ailment which prevents them from getting to their gate on time.  Nobody speaks English at the Cripple Corner, particularly the staff. I sit there having no idea what is going on, watching every nationality known to man, and wishing I was an optimist. An optimist would call the Special Assistance Area a great melting pot where race, creed, and disability didn’t matter.  I am not an optimist. I am irritated. And I want my coffee. 

              Then suddenly I am whisked away by a small Asian woman who also does not speak English, to gate number who-knows-what. You have to travel through the rip in the space-time continuum to actually get there. I wait in another Cripple Corner before boarding. I board first. Everyone else takes over half an hour to get situated on the plane. Strap in. Some people still have to watch when they do the seatbelt bit which should be a prerequisite for getting on the plane in the first place, in my opinion. If you don’t know how to put your seatbelt on, you’re a health and safety hazard. Drink some coffee (finally), and then take off. 

              The next ten hours are pleasant except for the fact that I need to ask for help every time I need to use the toilet. “Just to walk there, not actually to use the thing,” I explain. I haven’t asked permission to use the bathroom since I was in grade school, and I find the level of explanation required absurd. No doubt in a few years the flight attendant will have to do paperwork about it. 

              Prepare for landing. I look down and it looks like I am landing on Mars.  I have now flown from home to home, and this home is the dead opposite of the home I was at ten hours ago. Somehow the rip in the space-time continuum has followed me so that a ten and a half hour flight which takes off at 11am, lands at 2pm. The sky is blue and by the time I get outside, my urban black clothes are making me sweat. Inside the airport I pass by approximately sixty slot machines, five Elvises, and two women I’m sure work as showgirls at the Stardust.  The airport attendant wants to know how I’m doing in school. I have never seen this man in my life, but he knows me and we are soon speaking in Spanish which feels as comfortable as speaking in English. Pass by the passport people, and again explain that I really do only have one bag, and no I haven’t forgotten any suitcases on the conveyor belt. Outside I am greeted by a gigantic billboard of Barry Manilow, blue skies, and a raging headache from the sunshine. 

              Eight thousand miles. Eight time zones. And two completely different universes. I’m now very tired and very confused. . .