Leaving home, I wasn’t particularly excited. Last night I had the pre-trip jitters – “have I forgotten something?”,”Will the airline lose my bag?” (they didn’t but I wouldn’t have minded – being compensated for wearing the clothes you flew in for a few days is hardly the end of the world). This morning all that had gone, almost to the point of me being emotionally void. I was ‘flying the nest’, ‘going walkabout’ for (up to) 3 months and I felt nothing. No excitement, no terror. I guess because this is the trip I’ve been dreaming of since I was 14, there was nothing more I could do but go and see where I ended up.
I got the train to Wilmslow and still felt no excitement. “You’ll feel it when you get to Boston,” I told myself, “you’re not feeling it now because flying’s no longer a novelty.” I was wrong. I stepped off the connecting train at Manchester Airport and it hit me. I walked into the departure hall grinning like an absolute knob.
I checked in and was through to the gates in less than 25 minutes. I was happy that I could waltz through; the tetchy woman sorting trays for the scanner wasn’t. “Take your belt off”, “take your coat off”, “quickly”, “hurry up” “NOW!”. Lovely. Skipping the lines sounded good, but really it meant waiting around to board for longer. Alistair Humphrey’s second book ‘Thunder and Sunshine’ helped but I was still bored in the 2:30 hours I had to wait. Hardly promising for the weeks ahead!
Fortunately, that boredom was somewhat alleviated by the flight. Having been playing music all day, my headphones decided all of a sudden to break before takeoff. So there I was, with no music or in-flight entertainment, repeating the following for the next 7 hours: eat, sleep, stare into space, repeat. In fairness, the food really wasn’t that bad. That said, I ate school food for the majority of my teenage years. A lot went on in my head in that time. I realised that Trump, a man with a nuclear football, is now in charge of my safety for the next however many weeks… What a thought!
I touched down in America at 3:20 EST. Waited for what seemed like an hour to get through customs. Put my fingerprints on record and was waved through with a stamp. Then waited for what seemed like another hour to collect my bags and changed my SIM card – I got 5GB of data free from Three but that’s a story for another day. Took my luggage tag off my bag to appear less of a tourist and then hopped on a Silver Line bus to South Station.
This is the point at which I thought I was going to be robbed. I put my bag on a bag rack and sat down on the back row. I noticed the guy sat next to me and a guy in a snapback & Timbs next to the door were making eye contact in a “we’re in this together kind of way”. Or so I thought. In my head, the guy next to me would block me in whilst the guy at the door would get off with my bag, just before the doors closed at a stop. I was just about to get out of the ‘situation’, by getting off with my bag and catching the next bus (they’re only every 15 or so minutes) when we got to the last stop. Shit! As it turned out, these guys had never met and both got off with their own luggage, baggage tags and all. I realised at this point just how on edge tired, jet-lagged me was. I guess at times like that it’s better to have your defences up too high than not have them up at all though.
After all that I took the T to Alewife (Ale-wife not Ally-wife) to finally meet Greg, my godmothers’ nephew and his wife Hee Yeon, who’ve kindly agreed to let me stay with them at their apartment in Cambridge. The Metro in Boston is great – you can get signal underground and (young) people tend to smile at you if you smile at them, instead of giving you a resting bitch face like you’d get on the Tube. The only bad thing is that the seats are rock solid. Like sitting on bricks.
Greg, as it turns out, is a really interesting guy. He’s just completed his doctorate at MIT and come back from a trip to Japan. His wife, Hee Yeon, is a Harvard grad, who grew up in Pittsburgh then moved to Boston when she met Greg. Both are lovely people and I found myself at ease and eating slow-cooked beef and sticky rice within minutes of getting through the door. By this stage, it was about 11 pm at home. I thought I’d try going to bed at a reasonable local time – apparently, it allows some people to sleep off jet lag within a single night. So I sat up and watched 2001: A Space Odyssey (weirdest film I’ve ever seen) and an episode of John Oliver’s ‘Last Week Tonight’ (how Trump hasn’t had him deported yet I’ll never know).
So, 21 hours after waking up, here I am in the States, tired but well-fed and well. The start of my gap year(s) couldn’t have gone any better!