Standing still in front of the security line a cushioned sixty minutes before my flight, it was easy to forget that hours earlier I had been frantically cramming long shirts, pants, and dresses into my single suitcase. I knew I should have brought two—one largely empty for traveling and souvenirs, and one for the bulk of my things—but I had decided that I would only have one and so one it would be. It would have to fit.
I would make this fit too, whatever this next adventure would be. But I knew I didn’t want it to be forced. I couldn’t squish these experiences into small boxes, I couldn’t distill them to images conjured in my mind. I would have to make myself fit instead, whatever that would mean.
Expectations unknown, except for the glimpses from friends saying “it’s conservative—cover your arms and legs” or “the university is very nice, and the town is safe”—I preferred to remain relatively uninformed so as not to cloud my judgment. Or, at least that’s what I told myself. In reality it was probably because the more I questioned, the more my imminent year-long departure would seem real.
The day of my flight, my father told me not to pack my college sweatshirt. “You don’t want them to know you’re American right away,” he exclaimed, brows furrowed and cautious. I agreed and put it down. After all, I was only bringing one suitcase.
I arrived at 11PM ready to transport myself eastward. At the airport, pedestrians whizzed past us huffing with bags while we remained motionless beside security check in. My suitcase, my father, and I lingered in this place of constant movement while planes jetted off in the background, reminding us that soon I would be moving too. Though, with air travel, even moments before departure it was impossible for the reality of the journey to sink in. 10 hours. As far away as a car ride to D.C.
Short tearful goodbyes gave way to the international departure gate, yet it still didn’t feel real.
I wondered when it would.