Long Haul (pt.1)

Transatlantic:

I have seven hours of contemplation to complete at 40,000 feet above land. 

The caterpillars in my stomach make knots as I approach the plane. I had been crying intermittently for the entire journey to the airport as the realisation settled in. Before today, the life-altering decision I made had been a blissful dream. I had not experienced any nerves or doubts because I felt I had outgrown my hometown. I feel like I am tied to places and people by swaddling blankets. This move is what I want, what I need. 

I am moving to Canada. My first solo adventure and it is a mammoth one. Approaching the plane threshold, an urge to touch its glossy white exterior overwhelms me. On previous flights to sunny places, I have laughed at the superstition that touching the plane brings good luck to your journey. But, in a last-second trust in superstition, I tap the cool metal shell. The caterpillars riggling with bulging bellies in my stomach are not yet giddy butterflies. 

I am 23, a recent graduate with often the decision-making skills of a deer crossing a road at night. But, I have decided to move to a new city, a country I have never been to, where I cannot speak their first language. 

At the beginning of the year, there were two things I was sure 1) that I did not want to stay in my job as a Teaching Assistant at a village primary school, and 2) that I wanted to travel somewhere with new opportunities and fresh faces. 

People who know me might say I am an adventurer. I am often on trips to new places, near and far. My mum mentioned that her friends have asked about her feelings about me moving abroad, and she said, “I knew it was going to happen sooner or later”. My mum understands me an excruciating amount better than anyone else, and her support in my moving has not dulled her worries and excitement. She has been a listening ear since early adolescence. I am lucky to have her support, as well as her admiration and her guidance when I need it.

I am from a large, close family. One of four children, I am both a middle and an eldest child, because of my 10-year age gap from my older two siblings. I am an invested auntie to six nieces and nephews. I often surprise friends with the fact that a close family gathering is usually a minimum of 20 people. I understand my privilege of having abundant support in every decision I make. There are only so many times a father can offer his money, service, love or time before you know that you will never truly have to struggle. I am fortunate. I hope this story is not undermined by my privilege.

I find my seat in the middle of a row, between a young boy I would presume to be mid-teens and a mother in her early forties. As I make myself comfortable with my orange neck pillow and watch the safety demonstration, the mother is talking through the gap between the two seats in front of us, where her two teenage daughters dismiss her swaddling. I recall my mother making a final call from behind me at the security check and her beaming smile as she waved me off from the baggage drop-off.

In my regular habit, I fall asleep during take off, like a psychopath, and sleep for the first hour of the flight. I am glad I do not see the green domino of English fields and glistening coastline reduce as we ascend into the clouds, as I would have cried concerningly. The mother would have felt obliged to console me and then check up on me, as though another one of her kids, the entire flight.

Both myself and the boy beside me stir at a spat of turbulence. Then, at the sight of our blurry eyes, the mother asks to get past us to use the toilet. I have been holding in a pee since the rushed march to the departure gate, so I go to the bathroom, following behind her.

We shuffle from our seats and move down the aisle towards red WC signs. Most people sitting in their allocated seats have their eyes glued to their TV screens. I believe I can discern their character by the movies they watch. At the two locked cubicle doors, the mother and I wait a few moments - silently exchanging a polite smile. When it dawns on us that we may be waiting together for longer than anticipated, she starts a polite conversation to avoid a prolonged awkward silence.

“What brings you to Canada?”, She asks, her accent is American. A smooth North American accent that fits with her maternal aura.

“I’m starting an Au Pair job for a family in Montréal,” I say openly, in an accent that is not mine.

“Oh wow, that's cool. Is it your first time in Canada?”

“Yeh, it is, and you?" It is an engraved etiquette that makes me ask about the lady in return.

“Oh, no. My daughters go to boarding school just outside of Ottawa. Well, my eldest is twenty and goes to college now, but my two younger daughters… who are with me,” she motions her hand towards our seats, “they are starting at the boarding school. It’s my middle girl’s second year and my youngest’s first year at the school.”

“That’s amazing. How is your youngest feeling about it? New school and everything.” I am genuinely interested.

“Hm. She’s been quiet, which makes me think she’s getting nervous. But Chastity, my other daughter, she’s been telling her all about it. It’s reassuring that they’ve got each other nearby… Or, at least, it’s reassuring for me.” She smiles warmly, but I sense the same maternal anxiety I had observed before the plane took off.

I return a similar smile.

Seemingly to distract herself, she asks about me. “So. Tell me about being an Au Pair. How many kids do you look after? And, like, how did you find this job?” Her body language shows she is invested in what I have to say, which makes me nervous.

“Um, there’s three kids. Nine, seven and four. Er, I just looked up Au Pair jobs on Google.” I laugh at myself timidly. “I used this website called Au Pair World. It's like a dating app but for Au Pairs and families. You make a profile and put filters about where you’d like to work, and what age kids, stuff like that. Then, you can see similar families and they can see you and then you just get in touch and see if you are a good match.” My eyes wander to the WC sign above the mother's head when I hear the toilet flush.

We both re-position ourselves to face the cubicle doors. 

“Well, good luck, that sounds like an awesome opportunity. How long for? Six months, a year-”

“A year.”

“Cool.” The cubicle doors nearest me fold open, and a tall, broad man exits. The mother is mid-way through saying “Do you do the school run and stuff? Like, what does the job entail?”

I take a half step to the toilet, “Yeah, I take the kids to and from school by bike and then supervise them until the parents return from work. I do their breakfast and stuff. Should be pretty straightforward.”

The adjacent cubicle door folds. The mother and I confine ourselves in our respective closets. The previous occupant had taken their time in here. Fortunately, everything was fine. 

The mother and I leave the cubicles, dabbing our damp hands on our clothing. We walk to our assigned seats, settle into our respective nests, and scroll through the on-flight TV library. I watched a film I have wanted to see; the lead actor is Florence Pugh, who I think is incredible.

During the film, the drinks trolley comes by. I get some water, and the mother orders a white wine while the boy remains asleep. Food then gets brought to us. My vegetarian dish comes out before the main trolley rolls through, and the smell wakes the boy. The film ends, and I’m at a loss for what to do now. I’m drowsy, uncomfortable and uninterested. I don’t want to sleep, because I won’t sleep tonight and jet lag will destroy me. Another drinks trolley comes by. I don’t get anything because I don’t want to use the bathroom again. The boy gets a soda. The mother requests another white wine. 

I have a book in the pouch on the back of the chair in front of me, but I don’t even consider picking it up. I’ve been reading it for a few weeks, which is longer than it should have taken. It’s not bad, only I am not feeling that addictive desire to find out what happens, because I have a pretty good guess in mind. 

A film I have watched before with a friend is advertised as a ‘Suggested Watch’ on the screen in front of me. Therefore, what better to do than watch it again in French? 

Quebec province is unlike the rest of Canada because its first language is French. My entire foreign language education has been in Spanish - and I’m hardly conversational after 10 years of weekly study. So, here I am, moving to a city that I’ve never been to, that speaks a different language, and I know no more than ‘bonjour’, ‘au revoir’ and ‘je m’appelle’. I smile at the thought that I’m a bit of an Emily in Paris: Lily in Montréal.

I spy the mother watching the same film in the corner of my eye. The film is ten minutes behind mine, and I assume the headphones cabled to her ears are playing English audio. It's amusing to see both our screens play alongside each other. My film gives spoilers to her obvious first viewing. She laughs out loud at a couple of scenes, and I smile at her reactions. I’m not invested in the film as I had only seen it in the cinema a couple of months ago, and the good intention of engaging with French isn’t entertaining. 

The film is a popular new rom-com with two young, attractive love interests - classic enemies to lovers. Strangely, I feel obliged to watch the entire movie. It's the knowledge that the mother must have wanted to watch it based on seeing me watching it. For that reason, I believe that if I turn off the movie, I will deter the mother from the film or make her question my judgement. It’s not like other activities are abundant for the next three and a half hours of flight.

When our films finish, the mother orders another white wine. The pilot speaks through the tannoy and advises everyone that it will be forty minutes until landing. The mother fidgets in her seat, and we eventually start talking. She tells me she is a military wife and her husband has finished three years in Belgium. The family has now moved to North London for his next residency. They only moved into the London house last week, so she has hardly unpacked. She has also recently been in New Hampshire with her family due to a bereavement, I find out. I worked out that in 15 days, the mother would have taken four transatlantic flights and two short-haul flights.

I can tell from the way she talks about her daughters that she is anxious about having no children in need of her once they are at boarding school. She will return to an empty house in a new city, where she has only spent two nights, with nothing but boxes of memory-filled belongings for company. She says she has a friend who lives nearby, who she will meet for coffee, yet her nerves radiate from her. I pity her ensuing loneliness. 

We are both silent for the descent. A mutual understanding that landings are the most dangerous part of the flight keeps us focussed on each tilt and drop of the vessel. We touch down half an hour earlier than scheduled, and the instant that internet service returns, a symphony of mobiles chime, and the dormant passengers become frenzied.

For your engagement, I will gloss over the following four hours.

I say goodbye and "good luck" to the mother and her daughters as they shuffle down the aisle to their connecting flight to Ottawa. I integrate with the herd that queues through customs and am directed to the immigration office to process my work permit. I sit in a dingy reception area for three hours, which looks and feels like an A&E waiting room, until finally, my queue number flashes on the overhead screen. Once my jet lag consumes me, my Work Permit Certificate granted. I move like a stinking zombie to collect my baggage from the conveyor belt. I half expected my bags to be stored somewhere because it had taken me so long to collect them.