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Epic. Kelly Wilson
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I took a seat by the window and watched as the 747 taxied up to the gate. I was exhilarated and anxious at the same time. In fewer than ten hours I would be in a different country, beginning the adventure of a lifetime, although I was not fully aware of the enormity of my task.
Chapter 2
My flight to London was uneventful compared to the excitement that had preceded my actual flight. First, there had been the strange encounter between my mother and her friend George, and the subsequent halo of light that seemed to surround them when they stood close to each other. Next, the dreadful look strewn across Mom’s face was hard to obliterate from my mind. She had appeared so worried. What could possibly happen to me on my year away? And of course, the inability of the X-ray machine to scan my image was definitely curious. But perhaps the most peculiar event of the day had been the way the image of my father in the picture had appeared to turn and face me. How was that possible? I still had not summoned up enough courage to take the picture out again and have another look. I was not sure what I was afraid of, but knew that whatever had happened, I was not ready for a repeat performance. Perhaps once I got settled in London, I would attend to it.
First class was definitely the way to travel. I ended up with a seat assignment all to myself. The seats were larger and roomier compared to their economy-class counterparts, and the seatbacks had their own personalized television screens. Even after the stopover in Toronto, I still was not seated next to anyone. George’s friend Amanda was to thank for the experience. She may not have been very receptive to me, but she had done me a huge favour.
I settled back into my seat, took the warm, fuzzy blanket that the flight attendant was offering, and made myself cozy. I removed my running shoes in an attempt to make myself more comfortable and pulled my iPod out from my messenger bag carefully enough to avoid the picture of my father and mother that was crammed recklessly into the side of the bag. I scanned through the plethora of music on my iPod and settled on an album by Oasis. After all, I was flying to Britain. I had never been on a transatlantic flight before but knew this was going to be a long haul, so I might as well attempt to enjoy the flight.
At times I found my mind wandering into daydreaming of the exact moment when I came face to face with my father. I imagined his affectionate reception, the big grin that would span the entire width of his face, and the warm, inviting hug that would follow. We would sit in his living room, sipping wine and catching up with stories from the past nineteen years. I hoped that our reunion would go this way, but knew that rarely did incidents of this nature go smoothly. I hoped he wouldn’t slam the door in my face.
I suppose I should have slept on a nine-hour flight to England, but I was getting increasingly eager and sleep was not my friend. I took solace in the fact that very soon, the one thing that seemed lacking in my life would be unearthed and, regardless of the outcome, I would know who my father was.
As the plane began its descent, I noted a few things. The sky was of course grey and it was raining. Not heavy sheets, but that misty rain that makes you feel cold to your core. Secondly, from the sky above, London had a mysterious air about it, as if untold secrets were waiting to be unleashed.
Once the plane landed and I was inside Heathrow International Airport, I felt overwhelmed. I knew Heathrow would be big, but that was an understatement when it came to describing London’s busiest and perhaps the world’s most confusing of airports. The international terminal was a maze of hallways, walkways, and lounges. If London was as confusing as this, and I was sure it would be, looking for my father was going to be akin to seeking the needle in the proverbial haystack. I had no idea where I would begin or how I would locate a man using an old photo. Undoubtedly, my father’s features had changed and aged. But there was no sense in backpedalling now. I was here, and here I would stay until I got sick of London or London got sick and tired of me. Who knew which would come first.
I navigated my way through the labyrinth, taking what seemed like hours to reach the customs and immigration area. I got my passport ready and lined up in the queue for foreign travellers—-which was much longer than the one for British nationals. When it was at last my turn, I was greeted by an unfriendly looking officer with one of the worst comb-overs I had ever seen, ginger hair specked with dandruff, and blotchy cheeks. He looked as though he was nursing a hangover.
“Passport, please,” he said gruffly.
I handed my passport to him and tried to avert my eyes from his glare.
“What is the reason for your visit?”
“Pleasure. I plan on exploring England and hope to work while I do so.”
“I see that you have a valid work permit for one year; do you plan on staying the full year?” he asked.
“I hope so.”
“Do you have employment and a place to live?”
“Not yet, but I hope to soon.”
It seemed like an eternity while he studied my passport and work permit. He kept flipping back and forth between the two documents, and each time he would glance up at me, and then down again at my passport picture. I could feel my cheeks turning about a million shades of red.
“Right. Okay, your papers look to be in order, so good luck, Miss Sinclair, and enjoy your stay in jolly old London.” With that he smiled and passed my passport back to me.
“Thank you, I think I might.” I smiled back, gathered my passport, and proceeded to walk out of the security area toward the baggage claim.
After locating the carousel where my dufflebag was to appear, I decided that my next task was to find a decent place to stay. Hotels were definitely out of the question. My part-time summer job back in Vancouver had not left me with a lot of extra funds, and the money I did have could only be stretched so far before I would need to find myself a job. I looked over and saw an information desk by the baggage claim area, no doubt strategically placed for bewildered newcomers such as myself. I collected my dufflebag, then strolled over to the information area.
“Alright, love. How can I help you?” the portly man behind the counter inquired.
“Ummm, I need a place to stay—-a hostel, really. I can’t afford a hotel, and I really only want to stay in a hostel for a few days before I take on the task of finding a job and an apartment,” I blurted out.
“First time in England then?” he responded without looking up from his laptop.
What was your first clue? I was tired and feeling sarcastic.
“Yes,” I answered dryly.
“Well then, here is information for the hostels in London and the surrounding area. As for finding a flat and a job, good luck with that one.” He handed me a vast array of pamphlets and went back to tapping at his computer.
Great, I thought, what now? For the first time since I had decided to embark on this expedition, I felt utterly alone. I was in a foreign country and didn’t know anyone. I could feel the hot sting of tears welling up in my eyes, so I turned on my heels quickly and ran for the nearest bathroom before the tears exploded. I bolted myself inside the first stall and started to sob uncontrollably.
“Are you alright, love?” a warm, pleasant female voice on the other side of the stall inquired.
Was there someone else in here? I hadn’t noticed anyone when I ran in, but then I wasn’t really concerned to look at the time. Of course, there must have been someone else in the bathroom; this was an airport, for goodness sakes.
“Yes,” I said through sobs.
“Are you hurt?” the concerned voice answered back.
“No, not at all.”
“Are you lost?” she continued