It is late October. Josh is home for exactly my birthday day, and then he leaves me again. This time, though, he is not a domestic flight away, he is an ocean away. He is an inconvenient time zone away. When I go into work at 8 pm, it is 1 AM in Germany. 2 AM after daylight savings time. When I wake up at noon, he is eating dinner/about to perform. Since he is the only one who can drive a manual, when he is not eating or performing, he is driving a foreign car, in a foreign country. I am lucky if I get a few texts, with a few photos. There are days I don’t even hear his voice. 

A few weeks prior, a friend at my book club told me, “You have to go. You fly free. Europe is so easy. There’s no excuse.” 

I relent, I peddle shifts to get a few more days off in a row.

“Would you be interested in having this weekend off, if you work my Monday?” I ask a woman who works with the airline, at a hospital, and at a hotel. 

A woman who works as a waitress, and with the airline, says she can work my morning shift, since she has a doctor’s appointment that afternoon. I work a halloween shift for her, in trade.

I work two weeks straight and manage to get 5 days off work, so that I can spend a few days with Josh in the Netherlands.

I am a little nervous about flying to Europe on my own, taking trains to small towns where Josh is playing, or asking him and the band to come get me, I would never. This is hard to explain, but it is because I have such distinct memories of flying to Italy when I was 22, with an outdated tourist book, no hotel reservations, and no plan for the 7 days ahead of me. I remember picking a flight to Milan, because it was cheaper, and using this detour to explore Pisa, and the western coast in Livorno, and Florence, on my way to Rome. I remember getting off the train at the wrong platform outside Rome, and walking miles and miles into the city, and arriving at a hostel advertised as cheap in my travel book, only to discover it was no longer in business. All of it, the mistakes, passing over me like nothing. 

But at 36, I invite my mom. We can get lost together. That will be better. 

The flights start out wide open, a non-reverers dream. Even my mom might get premium seating. Slowly, inevitably, there is only 1 seat left. I break it to my mom that I will take my chances, pull all the tricks I can, to get that last seat out of the country, on the first day that I have managed to get off work. She understands, pledges to fly out the next day, meet me in Amsterdam. 

I feel bad for a moment, allowing myself the self-hatred of inviting my mom and then leaving her behind. Then I remind myself, it’s just for a day, and I am the one missing Josh like crazy. I will risk failure to see him a day earlier. 

The Trip Begins.

I arrive at my work for the first flight out, dressed in my civilian clothing. I tell my co-workers my plan, my wild aspirations of playing the stand-by lottery. They do everything they can to help me and I am filled with gratitude and fear–which I’ve learned is really just another word for hope. 

Important details: My first scheduled flight is at 5 AM, and my flight to Amsterdam isn’t until 9 PM. 

The best thing I have going for me, is an early check in time, which puts me higher on the standby list than a person who, reasonably, flies into Philly, just a few hours before their international flight. 

The worst thing I have going for me, is the single open seat could disappear for various reasons, and I will have woken up at 3 am, stayed in the Philadelphia airport for 12 hours, only to be stuck there another 24 hours, to catch the next and only flight to Amsterdam. 

This is the most sadistic quality about me. I’ll put myself in this position over and over again. And better yet, I’ll check the stand-by list, using all my employee tools, compulsively, as if keeping an eye on it will keep it in check. I’ll look at the other passengers’ itineraries. I’ll track the storms across the country. I’ll count the passengers who could miss this flight to Amsterdam, if storms delay the plane that will bring them to Philadelphia. I record when I eat food, because 12 hours in an airport is disorienting, and it’s easy to not eat because airport food is expensive, and it’s easy to eat because I am in purgatory, watching a soap opera of planes and passengers unfold. 

For long stretches of the day, I monitor the single available seat. My name is at the top of the stand-by list. That seat is as good as mine for hours, upon hours, upon hours. When I am a couple hours from boarding time, there is a brief moment when there is no seat at all, but by this time, I am tracking a delayed inbound flight from Dallas, where several passengers will not make their flight to Amsterdam today. The universe takes away a single seat, turns around, and gives me 16.

I can breathe. I can get up from my seat. Yes, anything can happen, but this is no longer a razor’s edge I am walking. This is an old swinging bridge. I am so relieved and physically light, that I start to believe I even have a chance at the three first class seats. 

And oh, do I dream of getting on a plane at 9 PM, settling into a pod, donning my complimentary sleep mask, reclining my seat back until it is completely flat, and sleeping until I arrive at Schiphol airport. I am bold enough to think that Philadelphia owes me this, since our last encounter. 

I have checked in my mom for her flight. A friend, from work, might even fly with her. Their flight is still wide open–almost a hundred empty seats. Josh tells me they had a show cancel, so the day after I arrive, we will have a day to ourselves. A small blessing for the wife of a touring musician. They still have a show the day I arrive, so I will get to see them perform. Another small blessing, for the wife of a touring musician. 

This is my first international flight as a stand-by. What I don’t know yet, is that economy passengers can “bid” for an upgrade. They can use their hard earned points to snatch up first class seats if those seats are not already paid for. They will have priority over a non-revenue employee. There are three first class seats available on the flight to Amsterdam, and three economy class passengers waiting for their prize. I sit on the floor at the gate, and watch them collect their upgraded boarding passes, ten minutes before boarding. 

But all is well. I settle into my premium economy window seat, texting Josh, my mom, and my friends, that I am on my way to Amsterdam. I open the goody bag to find a nice set of headphones, toiletries, a sleep mask, pillow and blanket. The seat has more space, but does not lie flat, and I am traveling next to a stranger. But all is well. 

Between the exhilaration of achieving a seat, being fed well, and gladly accepting complimentary alcoholic beverages, I sleep only an hour or two. The view outside is darkness until we cross over England. When we land, Josh is already on his way to pick me up from the airport. I am so relieved I do not have to also figure out how to take a train or bus to Ermelo, Netherlands. Neverheard of it? Me neither. 

I arrive.

In the passenger seat of Josh’s touring van, I am stripping layers off. I am so hot. My body has been in one position [ that of a cornered animal ] for so long, that I am my own source of heat in the frigid Dutch countryside. 

I am impressed at Josh’s ability to navigate. He uses google maps but he is displaying a confidence that tells me he has picked up his wife from the Schiphol airport a million times. He is reading signs in dutch. He is talking, while smoking, while driving, while offering me the best clementines I’ve ever had. Europe looks good on him. Who knew this kid from Appalachia would use his passport for the first time, and show up my 22 year old wanderlust ridden past self.

Our American dynamic is for Josh to drive, for me to choose the most efficient route, and I remind him which turns to take. Our Dutch dynamic is me, lost, useless, and happily compliant.

Josh and his band are staying in a cabin in the woods. Well, two cabins, in the woods. They have their own bedrooms, their own kitchens, and living rooms. Jose even offers to move out of Josh’s cabin for the time being so that I can stay with him. It is such a sweet notion. 

It should also be reiterated that the US election is the same day I land. I have escaped the country, strategically, to not be consumed by what is happening in the news and in my friend’s groups. This turns out to be a very good move. 

In just a few hours, I pile into a van with the boys and ride to Nijmegen where they unload, sound check, and eat very tasty Indian food. Everyone is very kind to them and to me. The Dutch ask me about my holiday, the election, and the band. I am jet-lagged, and do not respond with my best commentary. It is jarring to hear them ask me questions, without a clear indication of what side they are on. I can’t even tell what side they think I am on. But also, I’m feeling some mental whiplash. I’m not a tourist at this point. I’m just a wife who misses her husband. I’m just a roadie who is blindly following the rock and roll band. And after absentee voting, the election is now something entirely out of my control. 

I think the boys play fabulously. The crowd is responsive and many fans corner the boys to talk shop. I help load up and we are out of there very quickly. It is on the long drive home that I hear the boys talk about how terrible they played, how awful they felt, and how glad they are to have a few days to recover. 

Everyone is sick. 

Well, maybe not everyone is sick, but those who are not sick, wake up to the news that Donald Trump was elected as the next president of the United States, and now they are sick in a different way. 

This day is hazy, and lazy, and could possibly have been merely a fever dream if Josh didn’t want to go to the grocery store for fruits and ginger tea. 

I have a rule when traveling. Check out a grocery store everywhere you go. When Josh says he wants some things, I am eager to see what a dutch supermarket looks like. One other band member comes and we take our time in near-by Ermelo. 

The most exciting items I find are deli-meats, cheese, and these perfectly crusty bread sticks. There is tea galore and prices seem really reasonable to me. I want snacks so that I can snack all day and not have to leave the cabin in the woods. 

There is a conversation among the three of us about the grocery store parking lot. It is not black top with painted lines. It is bricks or pavers, and the spaces are designated by different color pavers. It is clever and we stand and appreciate it. The boys entertain my curiosity and we walk toward a windmill. Josh and I get our photo taken and then a decision is made to drive to the next town over, for a cafe. Iykyk. The town is called Harderwijk. It has narrow streets, and cute shops, and a walled portion that separates the city from a narrow body of water that stems from a bay that opens into the North Sea. 

We get what we came for, and then walk around. There is a sweets shop and I want to try a pastry. There is a fritas shop and I have fries with mayonnaise, peanut butter sauce and onions. It sounds gross, but I swear it is the best thing you’ll ever be brave enough to try. We walk through the walled city and see the water. The boys are ready to go home, even if it’s not really home, and even if their real home is also not really home, at the moment.

Josh wants to pick up the equivalent to a nasal spray. The new mission is to find a pharmacy, or a pharmacist, who can translate our english description to a dutch equivalent. Josh finds both, and spends $3. 

I have, by this point learned that my mother’s first flight to Philadelphia was delayed until she missed her flight to Amsterdam. So she is rescheduled first flight the next day. She will get to PHL by 7 am and wait until 9pm for the only flight to AMS. Like daughter, like mother.

She sends me updates. I tell her about the short story dispenser near the public library nook. Anything to help pass the time. I tell her my friend from work should arrive any minute. To get in contact. My friend from work is being cagey. I dismiss it and book a hotel for my mother and I. It’s brave to book a hotel without a confirmed seat for my mom but there are still 96 seats open, and maybe 45 standbys. I think it’s safe. 

Also, worth mentioning, my phone notified me upon landing that data would be so much money per mb, or $10 a day, and like a true cheapskate, I have decided to go without data entirely. So I have no internet, and I am not receiving half the messages sent to me. They only come in waves when I find wifi. 

And on the third day,

I am receiving texts from Josh and my mom (Androids). Josh and I drive to Amsterdam. I will be meeting my mother and friend from work. I am convincing myself that if I can find my way through the airport then so can she. To my knowledge, my mother and my friend are not together. Everything I send to my friend, goes unanswered. Maybe she didn’t come at all. 

There is a moment, on the way to Amsterdam that I realize I’ve left my coat. We turn around and get it. There is a moment when I risk an expensive phone call to find out if my friend is alive. She is, and she is with my mom. There is a moment, when Josh and I pass them and don’t realize it. We backtrack. We call. Yes, the big atrium with the Christmas tree. Yes, the bottom of the escalator. 

I have held it for too long, I can’t wait. I find a bathroom. When I emerge from the bathroom, I see my mom has found Josh. I hug her, and then my friend Jenny appears. She has a devious smile. I hug her. I am temporarily elated by the impossible odds of all of us getting to the same place. 

Jenny tells me she has a surprise for me. It is Tyler. She has brought another friend from work. I am surprised and I force Tyler to hug me as well. This is unexpected and I’m not sure what to think about it, but I settle, very quickly, on this is a good thing. 

Then I am informed that I walked right past another surprise. Dalton. Another co-worker. A large, friendly man who is extremely hard to “walk right past.” I hug Dalton and everyone laughs at me. 

It should also be said, that I have come to Amsterdam, to be with Josh, specifically on these days because it is our anniversary. Essentially, our anniversary has been crashed by Gen Z-ers, and my mother, who has now met my unhinged friends and is even more excited to be in a new country with a gang of feral ramp agents. 

Oh boy. 

The next 24 hours can go one of a million ways, and the only thing I can do is follow along. Because of course, I have made no plans. I have done zero research. I was not even convinced I would see the city, much less see it with five other persons. 

As a group, we find the kiosk to purchase the passes to get us into the city center. Everyone but Josh is on their phones, checking in for their flight home the next day at 1pm. Dalton offers his wifi hotspot. Which means, I am checking in my mother and I. Jenny, Tyler, and Dalton are checking in with higher priority passes, in effort to compete for the first class seats on the way home. Since I’m traveling with my mom, I know we won’t have a chance. But it’s 1 in the afternoon and I simply don’t see a need for a lay down seat.

We arrive at the main station in Amsterdam, and begin walking. Jenny wants a stroopwafel. Josh wants a scarf. We pass by the national monument where the square is filled with pigeons. I lose Jenny. I ask around, “Has anyone seen Jenny?”

Josh points to the middle of the square where Jenny is squatting among the birds, arms outstretched and desperate for friendship with the avian residents. I spot the men who sell bird seed to homosapien tourists and keep a distance. Jenny and Tyler feed pigeons, allow them to sit on their arms, shoulders, head. When the pigeons run out of food they leave for fuller hands. Jenny and Tyler sprint through the kit [=bird lingo for flock] and the pigeons respond with an air show, flight quickly in spiraling circles. My mother and I duck and sincerely fear our wellbeing. 

When Jenny and Tyler rejoin us, I recount the experience of losing and then finding Jenny “crotch-deep in pigeons” and she laughs hysterically, making a note of my joke in her collection of quotable sayings. 

We all eventually want to put our bags down at our hotels. We split. Jenny, Tyler, and Dalton go to their hotel. My mother, I and Josh go to ours: Hotel Frank since 1666. I am excited about the narrow winding staircase and the low ceiling in this bed and breakfast. I love how charming it is. I appreciate the modernization of the guest room itself but secretly wish I could know what it looked like in the 17th century. We fix espressos provided by the room, and set back out to meet the crew for dinner. Or lunch. I do not know what time it is. 

The adrenaline has faded and the winter has settled in. Josh finally finds a scarf. We walk to the national monument where the kiddos eat fritas, and mom and I split a slice of pizza. There is something happening around the monument. There is chanting and fireworks, smoke, and police officers keeping an eye on things. We don’t linger, but we do take note of a restaurant we may come back to. 

Tyler wants to go to a chocolate store. He seems to know where he is going, so everyone follows. We don’t question it. 

There are signs to indicate we have made it to the red light district. The first sign is a Kama Sutra Indian Restaurant. The second sign, is naked women posing in the windows. I look back at my mother, who is 62 years old, a widow. She is embarrassed but tickled. Her face tells me she would never have come on her own accord, but she is happy to say she has been. We all laugh that we led my mother past the sex workers and she, practically, didn’t bat an eye. 

We arrive at the chocolate shop, and Josh tells me he will probably head back soon. We hug and kiss, and take a selfie with everyone at the canal. 

The group decides to take a canal boat ride next. The next tour is just a few minutes away and we are allowed to sit on the boat until it begins. The boat has deep green booths, warm glass pendant lights, and 360 degrees of sort of dirty, sort of foggy, sort of wavy windows. 

When the boat gets moving, the tour guide speaks english and informs us of historical places and events. The rocking of the boat, the hum of the engine, the tinkling lights of the city bouncing outside, puts Dalton and Tyler to sleep. My mom is tired, but poised with her phone camera. Jenny and I giggle, take photos, wake up the boys, let the boys sleep. My photos become increasingly blurry–a sign of good times. I am taking photos of things the tour guide has pointed out, without retaining any information. Except for the dancing houses. The buildings that have tilted sideways over time, and rise from the canals like crooked teeth.

After the boat ride, we are once again hungry. Hungry for real food this time. I want a beer and so my only request is we find a restaurant that also serves this one thing. 

Everyone is sleepy, jetlagged and hungry. And cold. It becomes difficult to both find a place, and then also decide on a place. We walk into a charming pub, but some of the kiddos don’t want to pay 18 euro for a plain burger. So we walk out. We head towards the chinese restaurant we made note of earlier. Mom and I split soup and dumplings, and each have a beer. The kids split a bottle of flavored alcohol that ends up being not flavored enough to be palatable. 

The night is winding down. Tyler is done with the day and insists on heading to the hotel to sleep. Jenny is dead set on convincing him to go to a piano bar. Mom and I are on the fence. We are tired, we could go to bed. But the piano bar is by our hotel so we could go for a bit. Dalton is uncharacteristically quiet. He must be tired, or maybe he is feeling as though it doesn’t matter to him either way. 

Tyler is left alone, and the rest of us make the trek to the piano bar. It is open, but quiet. There is no performance tonight. 

This is the final nail in the coffin. The night is allowed to end here. We make plans to meet in a market the next morning. Mom and I go to our hotel. Jenny and Dalton walk to theirs. 

The odyssey home begins.

Mom and I arrive the next morning before the market fully opens. We shop postcard sized art, and I buy two cast iron plaques. One is a boy peeing into a pot, and the other is a girl sitting on a pot. They are charming and old, and cheap, and I can’t wait to surprise Josh with them on our own bathroom doors. The kids meet us late. They shop leather jackets and boots. 

It is nearing 11 am. Our flight leaves the country at 1:05 pm. Boarding begins at 12:15pm. My mother and I, by ourselves, are the kind of travelers who arrive 2 hours early for a domestic flight. Add on the fact that we are flying internationally, in a new airport, in a new city, that is at least a 25 minute train ride away…well I would have been to the airport already. Mom, however, is having fun. So what if we miss the standby flight home. The kids are under the impression that arriving two hours early is for chumps. Have a little fun. Loosen up. Take your time. Everything will work out. 

We head towards the train station, half on our way home, half looking for breakfast. When breakfast proves harder to find than expected, we stop at a sandwich shop and eat sandwiches with more cheese on them than a human can possibly handle. We decide to head to the airport. 

There is some chaos at the train station. We have the tickets but are not sure of the platform. The next train should arrive by 11:11 am. It is 11:05 am maybe. No one else is at the platform and there is no obvious indication that a train is coming. By around 11:18, the train arrives, and we settle into seats with our luggage and chatter. My mom is telling me about how fun this trip has been. The kids are bragging about how fun my mom is. 

I am trying not to scream. 

I know we should have left earlier. I know that as of this moment, on a train that has not left Amsterdam yet, we will have barely over an hour to find our way from the train, to the airport, to the security line, to customs, to the gate. 

I have mostly shut down. I don’t know why the train hasn’t left the platform yet. Every minute that passes, is a minute I am closer to accepting that I will not make the plane, I will not go home today, I will spend thousands to fly home, to not miss work or I will lose my job. 

11:35 am and the train still has not left the platform. 

At this point, even the kids are noticing. There are other passengers getting up from their seats and trying to get off the train. But the doors won’t open. The conductor comes over the intercom, and only says, “This train will not be leaving the platform. We will open the doors in a moment.”

11:39 am the doors open and the conductor tells us, if we are “trying to make it to the schipol airport, we must run across the platform to the present train. But be quick, it leaves in five minutes.” 

There are no seats on the next train, so the five of us stand in the aisles with our luggage and wait until 11:44 for the train to leave Amsterdam. 

My mom asks me, “Do you think we’ll make it?”

I want to scream. I tell her, “I don’t know.”

The kids are a little nervous now. This is a little too close for their comfort too. That’s enough to send me over.

This train was scheduled for multiple stops but was reassigned a fast track to the airport. We are expected to arrive by 11:51 am. 

It is 11:52 am and the stairs from the platform drop us off in the atrium with the Christmas tree. We walk very briskly toward signs for ticketing. We are not running, but we are not walking either. Everyone moves forward, I occasionally look back and count heads. We haven’t lost anyone. In the search for our ticket counters, we realize we have walked past the security checkpoints. We reverse and make our way to the lines of people waiting to have their bags and bodies scanned. In line, we all receive our boarding passes. 

It is 12:05 pm. Boarding begins 10 minutes. 

It takes us 10 minutes to get through the line. With only tennis shoes, we do not have to take our shoes off. Security is almost easy. Everyone is scattered on the other side though. I am stopped for a second screening because of the cast iron plaques. My mother tells me she has to find a bathroom. I tell her not to wait on me. Go!

I think of Gandolf, Fly you fool!

It is 12:25 pm before I am released from security. I see no one, not even my mom. Next obstacle is scanning my passport. There are booths that scan your passport and then your face. I choose a line that looks short, but turns out the passengers ahead of me are unable to figure out the procedure for placing the passport face down, standing in one spot, looking at the camera, waiting, and then exiting with their passport. I am delayed once more. 

It is 12:35 pm before I make it through, and when I see no one, I head towards the escalator that appears to take me to the D terminal where my gate is supposedly still boarding for the next 20 minutes. I am at the top of the escalator when my mother yells my name. I must wait for her to reach me. Seconds feel like sandpaper against my very existence. 

We speed walk, what feels like miles. There are occasional moving sidewalks and I am moving forward, occasionally checking over my shoulder that my mother is keeping up. When I see her, she is smiling. This is so exciting for her. I determine she is a psychopath. 

It takes us 8 minutes to arrive at the gate. They have already boarded groups 1-5 and there is a line for group 6. That is mom and I. We jog to the line and scan our boarding passes. Mom’s boarding pass is on my phone, so I scan her first. Then mine. 

I am selected for a random screening. It is 12:45 pm. Boarding ends in 10 minutes, but I’m at the gate and I am still not convinced I’m going to make this flight. 

I am swabbed for bomb residue, instructed to unpack my belongings. The gate agent finds the plaques with the peeing kids and gives me a strange look and a small smile. Tells me I can pack everything back up and board the plane. I am not the last passenger on the plane, but I am certainly one of the last. I am so warm. I have a coat, a sweater, a long sleeve and a tank top. I strip to the tank top as I sit in my assigned seat in the bulkhead of the main cabin. I can smell the musk of my armpits but I don’t care. 

The flight attendant tells us we can move to another row to get enough seats to ourselves to lay down. My mother and I decline the offer. We don’t need to lay down. We are both excited about the leg space in the bulkhead. 

When the flight attendant smiles and walks away, I wonder if she just wanted our row empty so that when she sits in her jumpseat she is not staring at passengers. I feel bad, but not that bad. 

I finally cool down and put my shirt, and eventually my sweater back on. The plane takes off. The flight will be 7 hours, and I determine the best soothing for my soul is to rewatch the last half of the Harry Potter movies. [Spoiler ahead:] Somewhere between lunch and dinner on the plane, I bawl my eyes out when Dobby the elf dies. 

The landing in Philadelphia is so rough, I am physically jolted and the intercom phone falls from its base and hits our flight attendant in the head. She is still in good spirits though. I take it to mean this happens occasionally. It is what it is. Look at us, we are alive and well. Planes are made for these sorts of things. And so are humans, apparently. 

We must go through customs and TSA security upon entering the US. As you may have guessed, I am stopped for my bathroom plaques. When they scan my bag and inspect the contents, this time, PHL agents are calling over their fellow agents to look at these silly trinkets I have packed all the way back from Amsterdam. 

It is 3pm in Philadelphia. There are five of us still trying to make it home. Half of us are parked at CVG and half of us are parked at LEX. The first available flights to both are slim margins. There are 1-2 seats. The flights leave at the same time, roughly 6 pm. My mom and I split. Dalton drops off the CVG flight to join me to LEX, which allows my mother a better chance at getting on the plane she needs. We are all willing to wait until 9pm but wouldn’t it be so nice to make it on that first flight home?

Everyone makes it on a flight, including my mother. My boss at work greets Dalton and I as we deplane at the gate with the broken jet bridge. She laughs as she asks me, “So the kids invited themselves on your anniversary trip and you didn’t kill them?”

I tell her, sincerely, “It was actually pretty fun. Minus the whole, almost didn’t make it home bit.”

She is a seasoned veteran non-rev-er. We don’t have to explain what happened. She knows without hearing it aloud. Every trip is an almost-didn’t-happen adventure. 

I regret-I mean, I reflect.

I am still of the mindset that Amsterdam was not quite what I thought it’d be, but also exactly what I’d thought it’d be. There were canals, and bikes, and boats, and cafe shops, and naked women. But the canals were endlessly beautiful. The bikes were not as scary to navigate as a pedestrian. The boats, especially the house boats docked along the canal were points of envy and I will look for an airbnb on a canal houseboat if I go back. The cafe shops were unobtrusive and I was never offered drugs. I can’t explain why I thought that would be a problem. The red light district was fun and welcoming and never seedy or sin-city like [we never went at night time, and we, also, were not patrons]. 

Things that stood out to me: I’ll never forget the breadsticks I bought at the Ermelo grocery store. I’ll never forget how good those fries were with the mayo and peanut butter sauce. I’ll forgive the train system for giving me a mild panic attack, only because they readjusted an entire line to accommodate airport go-ers who should have left 25 minutes prior. I’ll pine forever more, for the abundance of Nespresso machines, well manicured neighborhoods with quick traffic lights and roundabouts, tasty tap water, and the best clementines I’ve ever had.

I’ll never forgive the U.S for how they handled the election. How they continue to handle things. And how this country makes me want to make plans to leave the country. Still, I don’t know that anything is as bad as it is, or appears to be. Despite the headlines, I believe the world is a better place than it was. I believe people mean well. I believe there is always room for improvement. I believe humans can do anything, survive anything, and rebuild anything. I believe we can get to the bottom of all things. In time, at least. 

We’re made for this, I think. We have evolved to this point for a reason. We love what we love, and we hate what we hate. Society hinges on checks and balances, and with all dictators come revolutions. With all monarchies, come democracies. With all peace, comes war, and with all war, comes peace. 

When I am overwhelmed or fearful, I remember how a landfill outside Buffalo, NY was converted into a wildlife sanctuary. And if you google that for yourself, you’ll find there are more than a dozen nature preserves and public parks that used to be landfills. Only then, am I emboldened to believe that even if the world turns into a trash heap, it will still have a fair shot at becoming a prairie for the songbirds–even if the train doesn’t move, and the doors don’t immediately open, there are conductors who are still trying to get you to where you are going, and even if you get stopped along the way, the minutes are only minutes, however painful they may seem. 

We will make it. 

And for the doomsday vigilantes, and the whistleblowers, and the naysayers, I’m fully aware not everyone makes it on their plane, to which I remind you, we have never been promised a seat on the plane. We have never been promised a life without change, or obstacles, or death. We are all just trying to make it. Some of us are arriving early and waiting around. Some of us are arriving on time, wasting no time for our holiday. And some of us are late, running with our heavy bags, and looking over our shoulders to make sure we haven’t lost anyone.