I am prudently homeless. Impromptu inspiration led to my shedding of material excess and leaving for another continent. I welcome this liberation as my adventures begin.
Humble Endings
After reducing 3 business folders to a single envelope, dumping countless boxes of inessential junk and accidentally setting a trashcan on fire, I was driven. What ensued were two weeks of further discarding, selling, shipping or giving away all my life belongings while making arrangements with friends and family anywhere from Seattle to Poland. Logistical nightmare turned to opportunity as Tetris blocks neatly falling in place.
After those two weeks, I was officially homeless. My whole life, 28 years worth, again boiled down to two boxes, a suitcase and a backpack. What little one needs these days.
With half the junk en-route to Seattle, I looked the other direction.
Birds of Feather
Dreading 10 hours of sitting in a metal tube hurling 30,000 feet above frozen icebergs, I learned my neighbor was a Polish lady named Asia (pronounced close to “Ah-sha”). What a small world the world has become. For less than 24 hours, our heritage united us in joint mockery of my new, somewhat alienating American accent and criticism about Norwegian Airlines’ greedy dearth of complimentary drinks, charging even for a goddamn cup of water.
Asia was an older, charismatic preschool teacher originally from Białystok, and also a proud owner of US citizenship. She kept switching her country of residence every few years, currently planning to stay with her ill grandmother in the homeland. She reminded me of my aunt.
The conversations continued as we lost and found each other again at the connecting Oslo airport after automated immigration booths refused our passports and our gates got shuffled around three times. But it’s ok, we were Polish, historically used to this…
Uncertain Wait
Our connecting flight at 5pm rolled around, and nothing happened. It was delayed to 5:20. Then 5:20 came, and it was pushed to 5:40. Then 6. And 6:20. And I think you know where this is going.
Long story short, the aircraft (apparently a subleased Russian vessel, according to rumors) needed a fix for the emergency oxygen tanks. A simple job for the technician. Naturally, no one knew where said technician was, when he might show up, or what size socks he wore. So we waited.
With my companion watching over the bags, I got to stretch my legs by compulsively walking around the fairly small area. The wooden decor was a nice touch. In passive-aggressive rebellion against ever-conspiring Universe I got dispensable coffee and tea I never paid for. I was now over 24 hours without sleep in deliberate attempt to bypass the jetlag after (spoiler: it worked).
The airport offered little aside from duty-free booze and overburned PizzaHut™ that spectacularly managed to look worse than the American equivalent. Needless to say, I had none of either; still guilty of the few nuts and an egg I had to appease the rumblings while preemptively atoning for Polish delicacies to follow. After ambiguous two hours, the wait was over.
The Last Stretch
The final hour and a half in the air flew by and soon enough I was hugging my cousin as we sped off to my grandparents’. Small supper and ambivalent smiles were prelude to a cozy bed, my reward for enduring some 30 sleepless hours.
The journey was over. I was home, or rather, home-like transient space to exist in.
Retrologue
Despite our comradery before, I never managed to reconnect with Asia after getting split on the last flight. Unlike me, she still had another 3 hours of buses to get to Białystok, if buses even ran that late. I like to think: perhaps, she decided to spend the night in a nice 5-star Warsaw hotel, delecting in a warm bubble bath and mimosas on the following April Fool’s morning. In retrospect, I wish we exchanged information and a new life-long friendship could have bloomed. But I guess that would have been too smart and logical of me.
To be continued…
P.S. Retrologue is a word I just made up that mushes “retrospective epilogue” together. Deal with it.
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