CelsAway

It’s 7 AM when my alarm rings, waking me from a dream I forget immediately. I hear my mom getting in the shower so I decide to close my eyes for just a few more minutes. Yesterday I had two parties that I had to (yes, I had to!) attend, and saying goodbye to everyone took a little longer than expected. This was the first time I truly realized I was leaving. A wave of nerves hits me – not for the first time this week, but heavier, sharper.

The shower turns off and I head downstairs to the bathroom for my turn. I shower, double-check my bag one last time, and then we leave for the airport. I’m in the backseat of the car with my mom and my dad in front, my sister and her boyfriend are in the car behind us. I sleep the whole way there.

My best friend Laura had promised to come to the airport to say goodbye. I’m excited to see her. With my brand-new backpack weighing on my shoulders and my old just-found-it-in-the-closet (this could be the start of a really good gay joke) shoulder bag, I enter the airport. Only a few minutes later Laura finds us. We get coffee (not for me – I don’t drink coffee), install some Airtags so my family can track my every move, and then Laura and I go check in my bag. Though I’m traveling with a carry-on backpack, I like to check it in – one thing less I have to worry about.

Once the backpack is finally off my hands, my sister warns me I should probably hurry – boarding has already started. Everything is suddenly happening so fast. I figured I would have way more time, though maybe that’s just because I’m used to arriving at the airport four hours early, not two. We take a family picture, as one does, and afterward, my dad turns away and walks a few steps to the side. None of us are surprised. Laura might be, though I think I mentioned how emotional he gets. I smile softly and walk over to him. We hug and my glasses get squished against my face. I try to pull my head backwards a little, but keep my arms wrapped around him tightly. 

We move forward to customs, tension building because that’s where we will split up. My mom is the first one to give me a hug, whispering words of encouragement in my ear. Wishing me luck and happiness and be good, don’t do anything stupid (as I would ever?) and to call when something’s wrong. We’re both smiling, though I see her eyes glistering a little. 

Next it’s my dad’s turn, who’s failing at holding back his tears, and I feel infected – I feel them welling up in me too. I hug my sister Amélie, and the moment I feel her shoulders tremble, like a hiccup, teardrops slowly leave the corners of my eyes. We hug and hug again about three times before she tells me I will miss my flight this way.

Lastly, I say goodbye to Laura. And just like that, it’s time to leave. I scan my boarding pass and go through these little gates, separating me from my family, The tears come, unbidden and unstoppable, streaming quietly down my cheeks as I walk away.

I’m waiting in line at customs, and I realize I only have 15 minutes left before boarding closes. At first, it doesn’t seem like a problem, but the line barely moves, and the minutes tick by faster (I swear they were shorter than 60 seconds). Behind me there’s a family with two children. The kids are loud and annoying and the youngest constantly bumps into me or tries cutting in front of me in line. He is just past the age where this would be cute – now it’s plain annoying. Another baby starts screaming and I put my headphones on.

With only five minutes before my gate closing and still too many people to count ahead of me, I start to panic a little. I’m not seriously missing my first flight, right? The little boys behind me aren’t helping my nerves and I wish I had one of those fancy watches that track your heart rate – it would surely sound an alarm right now.
I consider asking the people in front of me if I can skip the line, but it’s a Sunday morning, after a long and exhausting week, and I feel too shy.

Finally, it’s my turn and I quickly put all my stuff in two trays. It’s 10:45, the exact time boarding is supposed to close. Just before I push the box onto the conveyor belts, my phone lights up: ‘No caller ID‘. I answer the phone and there’s a French-speaking woman on the other end. “You are flying to Bilbao?”, she asks in broken Dutch. Immediately I start explaining that I’m at customs and am on my way. She doesn’t sound pleased with me at all, and I can’t really blame her. She tells me I have to be there in 5 minutes. Shit.

Meanwhile, my bag is going through the security scanner and I am praying to every god I know that it won’t get flagged for inspection. As my bag finally rolls down the conveyor belt, one of the annoying kids from earlier blocks my way. I sigh, roll my eyes and squeeze past him to get to my stuff. I shove everything back into my bag as fast as I can and take off toward the gate.

Of course, it’s one of the last gates. I sprint through the duty-free shops, dodging families and their luggage. When I spot my gate, I notice it’s completely empty except for three staff members, suited up, waiting for me. One of them calls out to me: “Bilbao?” and with my hands on my hips, completely out of breath (my fitness isn’t what it used to be), I nod.

First, the guy kind of tells me off. “15 minutes before departure, ma’am”, he says, in Dutch, and I nod and excuse myself three or four times while they check my boarding pass. Then the guy changes characters, and he tells me: “You’re here. Take a deep breath, calm down.” I laugh a little, still puffing and wiping away my sweat. I’m wearing two sweaters.

Embarrassed, I board the plane, knowing that I have just delayed takeoff by ten minutes. I collapse into my seat, still catching my breath, and hope the rest of the journey goes smoothly.

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Update about my arrival and settling in soon!

-Cels