Flight

Ten years ago yesterday I moved to London with my monolingual Spanish-speaking boyfriend, Sergio, and about $400 between us.  We each carried two duffle bags filled with clothes, a handful of family photos and mementos, my 35mm Canon camera, and his acrylic and oil paints. 

We decided to fly on the first anniversary of 9/11 because the flights were $300 cheaper than the day before or after, and it was about the right time anyway.  My classes at the London School of Hygiene and Tropical Medicine would start in ten days.  The school recommended seven days to find a furnished flat and we added an extra three to open a British bank account and cash my Rotary scholarship check in order to pay my tuition before orientation.  Ten days seemed tight to accomplish these tasks in a city neither of us had ever stepped foot in, but we couldn't arrive earlier because each day in London was costly. 

Flying on 9/11 did not put Sergio or I on edge, but it did everyone at the airport.  Passengers fumbled with their luggage, airline employees made keystroke errors when attempting seat assignments, and the security line was the longest I had ever seen. 

While waiting to check in, a local news crew worked down the nervous line interviewing people about their destinations and decision to fly on 9/11.  Soon they made their way to me.  Sergio, my parents and I quickly became the center of news attention.  They had found a story.  Not too many people move to London departing from our small Dane County airport.  And not too many parents 'allow' their twenty-three year old daughter to do so on 9/11 with a brown skinned man who does not speak English. 

At each security check point, the authorities padded down Sergio and thoroughly searched his carry on bag.  When they learned he did not speak English and we were traveling together, they questioned me about our backgrounds and travel intentions.  Sergio and I arrived in London exhausted and embarrassed for my country. 


Unable to handle our luggage on the hour long tube ride requiring three train changes, we spent £60 on a cab to Battersea Park where our weeklong room sublet awaited.  The cab dropped us off on the High Street, traffic horns blazing as we blocked traffic. We quickly hulked our luggage into a pile on the sidewalk and rung the doorbell of the flat.  No one answered.  I doubled checked the piece of paper with the address, we looked expectantly at the locked door and rung the bell again.  No one answered.  We sat on our luggage for a an hour, staring into space hoping the guy we had made arrangements with would show up at his flat and let us in.  No one came. By now it was noon, London time.  Sergio and I hadn't slept in over thirty hours.  We had about $300 (£180) left. 

We located a Travelodge three block away.  We took turns carrying the suitcases down the road, resting along the way because now our arms and backs ached and we were delirious.  Then five £20 notes just floated from my hands to those of the Travelodge clerk. 

Sergio closed the motel room window shades and ten hours later we awoke atop the covers, shoes still on, and limbs numb from lack of movement.  I drew open the shades and saw a different London.  High Street was aglow.  A pair of women in heels clicked along the sidewalk below.  One woman threw back her head and laughed.  An oncoming car's headlights illuminated her face for a moment. I looked back at Sergio and smiled.


That is how the best year of my life began.  The best year of my life until now.  

David and I finding eachother is just the beginning.  Have I got serious plans.