…take a nap

It has been three weeks since I have seen the streets of Khalil. I’ve clicked my heels, there’s no place like home, and now I’m playing catch up from the almost sleepless tornado here. Boy was it quite the storm.

It began in Freeport, Maine as I rushed home from saying good-bye to one last person so that I could collect my belongings and catch a bus in Portland. In total, I was stateside for two-and-a-half weeks…not long to see 51 people (not including the congregations of two churches), or to spend significant time on the phone with 9 others. If I only had a twin, it could’ve been more.

A teary good-bye with my mother ended my stay in Freeport; Wesley drove me to the bus. And there Tim and I boarded a bus to Boston where we sat and ate and had the last Dunkin Donuts we’d have in a while. Train 67 to Virginia finally called for boarding after an hour of waiting and we got on. It was 9:30 pm. Some sleep greeted me on the overnight ride, but between uncomfortable body positions and frequent stops, it was stunted, at best. But it got worse. At 2:15 am we chugged into Penn Station in New York City and were kicked off. Now the plan was to ditch our luggage in the temporary baggage storage and hit the town (or find somewhere to nap), but the dreams were rudely abrupted by a sign which told us that the luggage area wasn’t open until 5:15. Three. Whole. Hours. Ok, we thought, I guess we’ll wait in the station. Perhaps we’ll get some sleep…But janitorial duties said no to that. Sitting upright, trying to chase sleep, thoughts quickly turning into dreams and back again, was how we spent our time. And all the while the kind janitor kept waking us all up and moving us out of his way. I wasn’t angry, but I wasn’t happy. I finally found some floor-space and, using my bag as my pillow, slept soundly until Tim woke me up 45 minutes later; it was his turn to sleep.

Five-thirty came and we escaped the waiting-room prison without our heavy bags and we couldn’t have felt freer. I lunged for the subway eager to get moving. The A train took us to the tip of Manhattan where we boarded the free ferry to Staten Island. This was my father’s idea, and it was perfect. The sun had yet to rise as we passed Lady Liberty; the view was beyond phenomenal. I couldn’t have imagined a better morning.

On Staten Island Tim and I strolled for a bit, passing sleeping couples wrapped up in each other’s limbs, but soon found a bench to sit on. I was itching to write (it must be a gene that my father passed down to me that makes New York so inspiring…perhaps there really is no place like home). I sat down, looked across the waters and wrote this:

Sunrise on Staten Island

Ahead the skyline’s hazy,

So familiar yet so unknown;

The Queen of Freedom’s silhouette

Is grayer than her stone.

A orange blur plays hide and seek

With an undefinéd sky;

The only thing I know for sure:

That plane which soars on by.

Soon enough sweet clarity

Will split the foggy veil,

While rising tides inch up the shore

And ferries take their sail.

Morning always ushers hope,

At least, it does today,

As rising towers join Lady Free

In a hopeful, free hooray.

Feeling satisfied with my creative release I suggested we get back to the other island; sunrise over the city must be beautiful from the boat.

And it was.

On Manhattan it was time for coffee so we found our way to a small coffeeshop and I used the internet to reserve tickets to see the World Trade Center Memorial. From there we leapt a couple of blocks uptown to the visitor’s center to pick them up, then slid back down to where we were to actually enter the memorial. Over twenty minutes of security passed before we walked the serene green and solemn fountains. 

How appropriate it was to leave the space empty where once stood a tower. Nothing can replace them, nor the lives lost, whose names are forever etched into the stone border. It was truly magnificent, especially with the new towers rising quickly around them. When this project is finished it will certainly be a marvel, however arrogant as well. Ah, the American way.

Lack of sleep was catching up on us as we left the sacred ground, so we stopped in a park by City Hall to rest before the lunch date we had with my cousin. I was approached by a nice lady who I judged for a proselytizer. I wondered how I could let her know I was on her side without letting her down, for I wanted rest. Tim wonder—fell asleep. But I quickly found that not only was this nice woman a Jehovah’s Witness, but she was also more than prepared to convert me. A half an hour must have passed before I could accept the invitation for her literature and escape the relentless, cunningly coy preacher-woman.

The relationships of the rest of that day were a bit better. I saw an old friend from Forham University, who I have great affections for, I zipped up to Times Square to have lunch with my cousin, who I have great affections for, and I had some coffee at a diner with my friend from the Bronx, who I have great affections for. My heart was full as I collected my luggage and got on the A train once again for the hour long ride to JFK airport. Had I been alone on the train I might’ve found some sleep, but that was not going to be the case. The train was packed from start to finish and I was on my feet the whole time, exhausted. Two-and-a-half hours later we were boarding our plane and taking off and by that time, I was thirsty for sleep. It would be an overnight flight to Kiev, Ukraine, a perfect place to rest, but AeroSvit is certainly no British Air. The temperature on that plane was just low enough that even the little sleep one could have had in the discomfort of those seats was denied me. I resolved to pacing up and down the aisles finding small vents which pumped out a fairly pathetic warmth. It was enough to satisfy.

Church 1

We rolled into Kiev at noon their time and God-knows-what my time. I was ecstatic to get into the sun and let my marrow warm up. It took more time than it needed to get into the city, but our brains weren’t on full capacity. We had an eleven hour layover so we decided to get out and explore and even though I was running on a long nap’s worth of sleep, the day was a success. Kiev is not the most beautiful city, but we visited an area dense with old, golden-domed churches and little street shops selling beer and trinkets.

Church 2

Church 3

It wasn’t until the return to the airport that my bubble was burst. We transferred flights from AeroSvit to El Al, the Israeli airline and their security was not about to let us waltz on the plane unchecked. It was a good thing we were three hours early because it took them that entire time to empty all of our belongings on a table and sift through them item-by-item. Occasionally an object would be brought to our attention: “Whose is this?” “Uh…mine.” And then we would answer questions about its purpose and why we own it. We each got a full-body check that included dropping our drawers like we were in the doctors office; at least the young man performing this task was nice about it. I wasn’t sure if they would let us on with our all-too-truthful answers about our intentions in Israel, but we were admitted: the very last two to board.

Anxiety kept me up on that trip, but at least it was only 3 hours long. In Ben Gurion, the airport at Tel Aviv, we went through three similar hours of questioning in back rooms with intimidating women who scowled behind sharp glasses and spoke threats through deceptive questions. But finally we were let in with both a tourist’s visa and warnings about our stay here. I gladly accepted and left. All I wanted to do was get out of the airport and find my way home.

Tel Aviv sunset

But Tim and I stayed in Tel Aviv, relaxing on the beach waiting for his “suspicious” luggage to arrive, which it didn’t. So after a sweaty, fitful night in a hostel we headed southeast to Khalil. I left Freeport at five in the evening on Tuesday; it was noon on Saturday. With a 7 hour time difference, that’s 72 hours of travel.

There is no place like home. And 12 hours of sleep never tasted so good.