The last day in New Hampshire was white with snow. Loads of it. I began to get concerned that Natasha and I would not be making it back to Istanbul as planned— but oh, how it was gorgeous. When we awoke to an empty sky on Tuesday, we were both relieved and sad, as this was the last time she would see our parents and littlest sister before she moved to Dubai. While I am over the moon for Natasha and her new job, I can't help but feel a little selfish and want to keep her here with me. Life is movement— and there's nothing in the world like a sister.
We got to Boston Logan Airport three hours ahead of time, curious about the new security measures in place. Relatives had phoned us the night before with rumours of invasive pat-downs and restrictions on what you could and couldn't take on a plane with you. We breezed through the usual security lines and found ourselves with hours to kill. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a familiar orange and magenta sign, grabbed Natasha's arm and ran toward it.
My college years in Rhode Island were dotted with orange and magenta memories. Feeling an extreme wave of nostalgia, I needed to order what I missed most about Dunkin' Donuts: an egg, sausage, bacon and cheese sandwich on an everything bagel and a hazelnut coffee. It's a heart attack in breakfast form, and absolutely delicious. Since the airport D&D was out of everything bagels, I settled for the next best thing, an English muffin.
Nostalgia tastes incredibly good.
The ride to New York's JFK airport was fraught with disappearing stomachs and sweaty palms. The plane, a Delta heap of metal from most probably the eighties, shook and fell and bumped and lurched its way down the East Coast. I can take turbulence, but I need to have confidence in what's holding me up in the sky. Fortunately, the flight was only 76 minutes.
We arrived with only ten minutes to reach our connecting flight to Istanbul, and hurried towards the gate on wobbly legs. The flight was full, the seats small. The man in front of me seemed completely unaware of his surroundings, crushing my left toes under his big boat of a shoe, oblivious to my yelling and seemingly unable to feel my foot under him. Eventually I was released from his torturous hold, and he sat down with an expressionless "sorry." I grabbed my foot and rocked back and forth in my seat, ow-ing and wondering if he was on drugs. Ok, it was an accident and nothing was broken, whatever. I had nine hours to let it go. As soon as we were airborne, his seat crashed down into my knee— which I expected, and decided to ignore. As I reached into my bag on the floor, suddenly his elbow swings back— right into my forehead.
The rest of the flight was fine. Exhausting, but fine. While I was doing some light stretching in the back of the plane, a flight attendant called out to her co-worker, "Hey Fiona!" (or something like that) "Come look at her tramp stamp!" This, of course, referred to the large tattoo on my back. Then she asked if Turkish men were afraid of me because of it, and tried to set me up with another passenger, then decided he was too young for me.
It never ceases to amaze me how some people have no filters.