As I approached aisle 30 from behind, I evaluated passengers B and C. Mother daughter duo. Friendly tones. Petite. Slightly timid, which meant they’d leave me alone. Hopefully.
This last stretch shouldn’t be too painful.
I stepped within view of B and C, and pointed to seat A with an apologetic smile. C steps into the aisle, while B pulls up her legs. I sigh in a sad defeated way, and awkwardly shuffle toward the window and plop down into seat A.
There’s a ding, and the pilot starts talking over the intercom in his native tongue, Icelandic. I plug in my headphones and close my eyes.
Halfway through song four, I feel the now familiar pull of gravity in my stomach. Seven and a half hours and I’d be home. Maybe then I’ll be able to leave the past seventy hours of hell behind me.
The only thing that has unfailing stayed true in my life is my need to travel. The summer after I graduated high school, I sat down with Dreamer at our local Starbucks. After much coffee consumption, and several hours of research, we had planned a six month trip through Europe. Our departure was set for spring 2016, which was nearly three years away.
Three years may seem like a long time to prepare for a trip, but I needed that time. I’ve struggled with anxiety my entire life. I would need to overcome that, and learn how to be more independent.
The plans were ever-changing over the next three years, and what started off as trip between two friends eventually became an adventurous solo trip. I had grown to a point where I didn’t want anything holding me back, and unfortunately that meant taking a different path than Dreamer, who’d be embarking on an exciting adventure of her own.
While planning my trip, I stumbled across a program called Workaway, which allows you to choose a country and then work for a host family within that country. The host family provides you a place to stay, food, and great company in exchange for helping out in some fashion. I couldn’t imagine a more perfect scenario in which I’d be able to so quickly submerge myself within a culture, and more importantly, stretch my money as far as it’d go. I ultimately decided I would travel for five months total – one month in Scotland and Norway, and two months in Spain. The remaining month would be made up of hostel hopping from Norway, to Spain, and then back to Scotland.
After sending out requests to host families for weeks to no avail, I was completely elated when I finally locked down my stay in Scotland. I was mowing down on a Raspberry Mousse during my break at the French Bakery when I saw an email notification come in from Workaway informing me I had been warmly accepted by a host family. My heart simultaneously burst in excitement and stopped dead in fear. It was finally happening. I would be working at a farm in Scotland for the entire month of April. That night I bought my ticket. Since my plans weren’t all the way flushed out and I didn’t know where I’d be come August, I bought a roundtrip ticket to Scotland. I would be leaving March 31st, and returning home on August 27th.
A couple weeks later I locked down my second stay in Norway for the month of May. I planned to reach out to host families in Spain while I was abroad. Between packing and planning goodbyes, I didn’t have time to finish planning my trip. If I couldn’t find a final host family in time, I would either continue to travel and stay in hostels, or I would change my flight home to an earlier date.
I’m sure some of you are cringing at the monumental mistake I made in this terrorized world we live in. I should have planned my trip completely before I left, I know that now, and I think part of me knew it then. I tend to approach stressful situations in an extremely causal way. After all, you can’t worry about something when you’re actively ignoring it. I was going to let future me figure it out, while keeping present me distracted with unimportant details – like what neck pillow to buy, and how many socks to pack. I know myself well, and I could not allow myself to overthink, or I would find a way to sabotage the entire trip.
When March 31st finally rolled around, I was full of contradicting emotions. I felt the stitching of my composure loosen with every second leading up to my flight. I was leaving everyone I knew behind to surround myself in a land of strangers.
The second I sat down in my oh-so-comfortable F27 seat, I was overcome with regret and heartbreak. No wander and that beautiful luster had been left behind just before security. When inquired about this trip, people would appear envies. How they wish they could take a break from their lives to travel the world. Traveling alone is not easy. It’s really hard – or maybe that’s just me – but this was going to challenge me in ways I had never been challenged before. My survival solely depending on my ability to figure out where and how I was going to get to my prearranged destinations.
The whiplash I experienced in my own mind was exhausting. There were moments where I could dislodge myself from my emotions and view my situation as a third party. I could see how amazing and crucial this was going to be for me, how this experience would change me, and help me grow tremendously.
Then there were the toughest moments, filled with anxiety and panic attacks. Doubt seeded itself inside whatever reason I had left and whispered menacingly that I was in over my head. The thought of flying back to the states the second we landed floated through my mind. As much as I wanted it in that moment, I wouldn’t give in. I had made it so far, and I was not going to be the one standing in the way of my goals.
After an exhausting ten hours, the plane finally touched down in Scotland. I shuffled my way off the plane, and made my way toward customs. With nausea hanging low my belly, and lack of sleep sitting behind my eyes, I felt wrecked. I hoped for a quick check through customs and day-dreamed of the bed in my hotel room.
I began evaluating each of the officers; a handful of men and one woman. They looked equally terrifying, but at least the woman, I noticed, smiled at each approaching person. I hoped in that moment that I would be lucky enough to get her.
The woman had just finished her inspection of an individual the moment I stepped to the front of the line. She waved me over, and I smiled as I approached her in my disheveled attire.
She did not smile back. Life is cruel sometimes, and she attacked.
“Are you alone?”
Yes.
“Where are you staying?”
I have a few places I’m staying at, but they’re not all nailed down.
“When are you leaving?”
I’m leaving Scotland in May. I’ll be volunteering for four weeks, staying at a hostel for a few days, and then flying to Norway. I’ll be returning in August to fly home.
“Volunteering for what?”
At a dressing farm.
“How did you hear of this?”
Through a program called Workaway.
“Work-away? You do realize it’s illegal to work in the United Kingdom without a work permit?”
No, I didn’t. I’m staying on their farm and helping out. I’m not being paid.
“Do you have your ticket to Norway?”
Not yet. I was going to wait to purchase it until I was here.
“Do you have a job?”
I quit so I could travel.
“Do you have any money on you?”
I did not bring American currency with me. I have a bankcard.
“Do you have paperwork showing how much money you have in your account?”
No, but I can pull up the information on my phone for you if you’d like.
“Please, go take a seat.”
I’m an emotional person, so I was definitely crying at this point. Hard. Snotting everywhere, really. I realized how bad I must look in the eyes of a customs officer. Unemployed, no documentation of money, and with a return ticket dated five months away. For those of you who don’t know, you can legally stay as a tourist in the UK for up to ninety days. I did know this, but with all the important decisions I was making, like how many socks to bring, it hadn’t even occurred to me how bad it would look that I had not already purchased my ticket to Norway.
For all intents and purposes, from this point forward Border Force Lady will now be referred to as Dandelion. Why? She was blonde, short, and I’m not always creative with nicknames. Oh, and because she sucked the life out of my dreams like a weed does nutrients to its fellow plants.
Disclaimer: Yes, I’m going to be bitter toward Dandelion. She ultimately held the key to my freedom. I know she was just doing her job, but I do not think my dislike for her is entirely unjust.
A series of events happened in the span of six hours in the following order:
- Dandelion and a companion searched my bag.
- They took my pocket knife (sorry dad) and my pepper spray (which is considered a firearm in the UK. Oops).
- They put me in a holding room full of inspirational posters and a single desk with two chairs. There was a wooden bench accompanied by a pillow and a thin blanket. They kept my belongings and confiscated my phone.
- I was allowed to make phone calls on their corded phone. I called the people that mean the most to me.
- I napped.
- Companion wakes me up to get fingerprints.
- I napped again.
- Dandelion came back in to interview *cough, cough* interrogate me. It went like this:
“You have no money. You have two pennies inside your wallet. What were you planning to do?”
I stared back at her, completely dumbfounded. “I have money in my bank,” I tell her again. “I can show you my bank information if you give me my phone back.”
She scratches down my response, but ignores my offer. “And how were you planning on getting this money?”
“An ATM.”
She raised her eyebrows at that. “If that didn’t work?”
“Why wouldn’t it work?” I snapped back. I admit, I was getting sassy at this point. I couldn’t help it.
“Say it didn’t, then what?”
I held my tongue and said, “I have a credit card for emergencies.”
I lost my anger quickly. I was emotionally and physically drained, and I just wanted this nightmare to be over. I don’t remember all the questions she asked me, but I will always remember when she said, “There’s no reason to get upset.” Three years of planning. 1,095 days of this very day in the back of my mind. Instead of being asleep inside my hotel room, I was here, in a holding room somewhere inside the Glasgow airport. I had every right to be upset.
Once the interview was over and she left, I numbly walked over to the bench and fell asleep.
- She comes back and explains to me that unless it is charity based, to volunteer in the UK you are required to have a work visa. She deems me distrustful and denies me entrance into the UK. They keep my passport, and give me a piece of paper that allows me one day access pass to the UK. I was required to go straight to my hotel located in Glasgow.
What happened next in the simplest form: I got my bag. I pulled out money from the first ATM I saw. I figured out the transit system. I missed my stop. I got off at the next one. It was raining. I approached a young man on a smoke break.
“Are you any good with directions?” I asked him. He looked startled. Tells me no. I frowned. “Could you at least point me in the direction of Waterloo Street?”
He perked up and pointed at the neighboring street. “That’s Waterloo just down there.” He smiled. He was happy he could help. I thanked him. I finally made it to my hotel.
I slept, maybe, four hours. A calm settled over me as I laid in bed. It was a sad calm, because I realized in that moment how okay I would have been if I had made it through customs without a hitch. I didn’t feel like mourning the death of the adventure that had awaited me, so I did what any sane person would do: I pushed it to the dark depths of my mind. What you don’t think about can’t hurt you, right?
I showered until the hot water made me feel sick, packed my stuff back up, and went down to breakfast — book in hand. I enjoyed the ambiance of the dining room. It was a large and uncrowded room with soft colors and calm music. I was pleasantly surprised with the coffee. When I was in Ireland the previous August, many places I stayed at used Nescafe instant coffee. Which tastes a mixture of stomach acid and dirt.
I ate until I regretted my last bite. I continued to read in the dining room. The residence of the hotel arose with the sun, so I freed my table and retreated to my room.
I decided to take a cab to the airport. It would be easier than lugging my bag down the street trying to catch a shuttle. I am eternally grateful to the cabby for not asking me any questions. I felt shame, and I didn’t want to tell anyone about anything.
When I got to the airport, I was relieved to see it was not Dandelion meeting me, but her companion. He had only shown me kindness. As he handed me back my passport he asked, “So, what are you going to do now?”
“I don’t know,” I said sullenly. “Maybe I’ll do some traveling around the states.” I smirked.
He smiled back in an understanding way, and escorted me to the terminal. The entire way he gave me information on different visas and what I could do to avoid this from happening again. I appreciated all he had to say.
It sucked. It really sucked. Writing about this experience is the most I’ve allowed myself to think about it. I’ve accepted what happened, but that doesn’t make it any easier to look back on. I’ve come to terms with letting go of a dream, especially if it’s to pursue another.
I only blame myself for what happened. I was doomed in my ignorance, and it could have been easily avoided. As much as I hate to admit it, Dandelion was just doing her job. I guess the hope I have from reliving this embarrassing event — and making it public — is preventing the same thing from happening to someone else. If you’re planning to do something like I did, do your research. And then do it again. But don’t sweat too much, this is a worst case scenario after all, and I survived it with little to no emotional scarring.
Stumbling Haphazardly 