To Devon!

I fell asleep at 1:30 in the morning. I woke up two hours later.

At least I'll sleep on the plane. And the bus. And probably while I'm walking to the bus. Jesus.

I took my last shower. Ate my last piece of Turkish white cheese. Glared at the zit on my chin and wished it could be the last zit on my chin.

Then I scanned the bathroom for toiletries, the kitchen for chargers and the living room for anything and everything.

Nope. That's it. 

I pulled my Timberlands out of the shoe closet and opened the front door. I propped it open with my bag as I laced up my boots, just in case I'd --

Nope. That's it. 

Softly, softly, I pulled the door shut.

Slowly, slowly, I walked to the elevator.

1st, 2nd, 3rd -- have I forgotten anything? -- 6th, 7th, 8th. 

The light turned, the lift dinged and the doors popped open.

Sadly, sadly, I rode 7th, 6th, 5th, 4th, 3rd, 2nd, 1st, ground.

Maybe Umit was right. Maybe I will cry at the airport. 

My feelings felt so mixed. So intense that I couldn't sift, sort through them at all.

I'll just let them be. I don't need to have a name for everything I feel. 

I walked thirty minutes to the metrobus. It was 5:30 in the morning and the city was deathly quiet. It was mizzling and icy cold, but I chose to be refreshed rather than "of course it would...of course it would rain on the morning I have to trudge to the metrobus with my enormous backpack..."

The city was mine at 5:30 in the morning. The mizzle was mine. The icy cold was mine.

I did it, my spirit exulted through the icy morning mizzle. I survived this city. 

I'd given my Istanbul Kart to the next volunteer, so I only had two red tokens to get me from the metrobus to the metro to the airport. Unfortunately, no one had told me that the metrobus does not accept tokens and I didn't have enough money for a ticket or a card to swipe. Fortunately, no one gave half a Turkish fig. I just boarded the bus with the rest of the tired looking Turks and sat guiltily in the corner with my face buried in my backpack, hoping that no one would throw me out before Sirinevler.

I arrived at the airport at 6:45. My plane left at 9:00, so I had loads of time to check in and get sorted.

This is how I like it.

I removed my cameras, laptop, external hard drives and kindle from my backpack and put them in my crumpler to take with me as carry-on. Even though I've never experienced any damaged/stolen luggage in the past, I'm still too nervous to check in my electronics.

My way of life depends on them. 

After dropping off my backpack (now a mere 13 kilos), I casually ambled towards my British Airways gate. My carry-on felt light and my spirit felt lighter.

I did it. I did it, I did it, I did it.

Boarding was delayed by half an hour. When I finally reached my 14A window seat, I immediately noticed that the seat directly behind me was occupied by an extremely unhappy Turkish munchkin who took great pleasure in pummeling the back of my seat with his tiny Turkish feet and screaming at the top of his massive Turkish lungs. His mother did nothing to discourage his furious pummeling, but occasionally interjected a lackluster, "sssshhhh" to stifle his stream of screams.

Flying is unnatural to me. I look down and think, "I wish I was walking or hitchhiking or riding a bus. I wish I could actually experience all this." Flying over Europe is like watching your favorite film on fast forward. You get a basic gist of what's going on, but every single detail is lost in the speed.

I'll walk and hitchhike through you one day, Austria. With my New Zealand buddy who makes plans like this: 

This is how Tessa decided to be my hitchhiking buddy.

Sitting in window seat 14A, I heard the woman in front of me ask for milk in her tea. I heard the stewardess call the man to my right "darling". My breakfast was sticky, bland porridge and soggy, soppy eggs.

Yes. This is England. 

The stewardesses offered tea, coffee and juice to accompany my sad looking breakfast.

"Would you like something to drink, love?"

"Can I have some cof -- tomato juice?" 

I changed my mind last second and ordered tomato juice instead. I'd just finished listening to a podcast wherein the hosts discussed the fact that tomato juice tastes better at altitude and the idea sounded so preposterous that I wanted to give it a try.

Unfortunately, I'd forgotten that I'd never actually tried plain tomato juice on the ground, so I had nothing against which to compare the sour sludge sitting next to my soggy eggs. But apparently, due to the reduced pressure in the plane's cabin, salt and sugar aren't perceived as intensely, so tomato juice is supposed to taste fruity instead of nasty.

Lies. All lies. I glowered at my juice and wished for coffee.

I've been nervous about England for a couple of months. After my issues with Irish immigration, all manner of immigration makes me extremely anxious... but I've been extra uptight about England because I know England views volunteerism in the same light. The light that says you need a visa to volunteer because volunteering is the same thing as work. My future host had even mentioned in an email that a previous American volunteer had already been sent packing to the States. Because she'd admitted to volunteering. 

I've been nervous about the lie I would have to tell when entering the country.

"Just staying with a friend." 

I'm a terrible liar. My face and my body betray every single emotion I feel all the time. This highly advanced emotion-face coordination has made me an excellent actor, a terrible girlfriend and a high-maintenance friend.

Will I be able to hide my fear?

My plane landed in London at five minutes to eleven. I grabbed my crumpler from under the seat and joined the crowd lethargically undulating their way towards passport control. I bit my lip apprehensively and dreaded the moment I'd be motioned towards a desk by the terse looking Indian man standing rigidly near the front. I clutched my landing card between the covers of my passport, hoping that Charlotte's address would be enough to get me through. I'd had to redo the card on the plane because I'd been so distracted the first time that my hometown turned into America and my flight number into the signature of Aimee Bourget.

I listened to a podcast to distract myself from my jittery knees and thought back to the time I played Dorothy in a children's production of Wizard of Oz. We'd included a song called "the jitterbug" that had been edited out of the Judy Garland film. As I stood in the line for passport control, I felt like every part of me was shaking and quaking enough to pull off that dance in epic style.

It'll be okay, damn you, I chastised my trembling hands.

Terse Indian guy motioned me to approach a desk manned by friendly looking black woman. 

I have to lie to her? Arrghh. 

I approached with a smile and handed her my passport and landing card.

"And what brings you to England?" she asked while looking over my card.

"I'm going to stay with my friend Charlotte,"  I managed to stutter. "I met her at a yoga training program in Spain three years ago," I added for good measure.

"And is your friend British?"

"Yes, she lives in Buckinghamshire."

"And what does she do in Buckinghamshire?"

"She used to practice homeopathy, but there's not a big market for that in England. So now she stays home and takes care of her two kids."

"And will you just be staying with her?"

"No, I'm registered for an acro yoga training program in Soho for the end of March and early April. So I'll visit her for a few weeks and then come back to London for my program."

"And you're a yoga instructor?"

"Yes."

"Do you teach while you travel?"

"No," don't say ANYTHING about working, Bourget. "I only stay with friends. I teach when I'm in America. I met a lot of people through my yoga program and they are really open to letting me stay with them."

"Are you going anywhere after England?"

"Yes, I'm going to Croatia and Montenegro and Albania," I'm leaving your country, I swear! "I hope to meet up with a friend from New Zealand and have an adventure in Western Europe after that." 

"Well, good luck. The weather is crap in England. I hope you've packed for it."

And she stamped my passport. I breathed an enormous sigh of relief, took my passport and scurried off to get my pack.

Step one accomplished. Bourget has officially landed in England.

Step two was to catch the Heathrow Express from Terminal 5 to Terminal 3. I was able to ask for directions in English (without resorting to charades) and find my way in no time.

Being in an English speaking country is such a luxury. 

My host had told me to take the National Express bus from Victoria Coach Station to Ilfracombe, so step three was to get from the airport to Victoria Coach Station. I found a bus for six pounds that was leaving in about an hour, so I sat down and listened to a podcast as I waited.

When I arrived at Victoria Coach Station arrival point (an hour jaunt from the airport), I was disappointed to discover that Victoria Coach Station is on the massive side and that I needed to walk another fifteen minutes before finding my bus's departure gate.

Another hour of waiting. I was hungry and tired and cranky. At this point, I'd been traveling for eleven hours and was running out of podcasts, caffeine, and airline tomato juice.

This is the last bus, Bourget. You'll be fine. 

Bus 502 pulled up at 15:15 and I beelined for the front of the line. If I was going to be on a bus for six and a half hours, I wanted a window seat not too far or too close to the toilets and as I'd just come from Istanbul, I was more than willing to plow through man, woman and child to get at the desired seat.

My inner-beast has been released. I am now a dangerous snatcher of seats and cutter of queues. 

I found a lovely seat halfway back and settled in.

Win. I smugly shifted my weight and leaned against the window. Istanbul totally taught me how to manage public transportation. I am now the public transportation queen. I shall conquer all the buses, trams an metros in England. I looked at my phone for the time. Here we go. 15:30 now. I'll arrive in Ilfracombe at 21:45. Just relax and enjoy the scenery. 

But I couldn't relax. At all. The scenery looked so strikingly familiar that it unnerved me.

I'm sure I passed this building on the way into town. Am I going back the same way? Oh well. There must be a lot of similar buildings in a place like London. 

I closed my eyes and rested my head against the window. An hour later, I looked up to change my podcast and heard a startling, "Welcome to London Heathrow Central Station" boom over the loudspeakers.

Whaaaat? I looked around, half-devastated and half bewildered. How am I back here? I just spent an hour on a bus and six pounds to gett away from here. What am I doing? How am I... blargh 

My brain sputtered weakly and died.

Stupid. 

Is what my brain says when it's dead.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. I could have bought a bite to eat. Or three hard ciders.

But I was too tired to berate myself with my normally superhuman self-effacing vigor. I'd been traveling for thirteen hours at that point, and my entire body ached and screamed and questioned, "WHY DID YOU ONLY SLEEP FOR THREE HOURS LAST NIGHT?" There was simply no energy left to ask, "WHY DID YOU CATCH A COMPLETELY USELESS BUS?" 

Perhaps I'm not the queen of public transportation, was the only thought that flitted, flickered through my nodding head. Nothing to be done at this point, is there?

The heater fried my legs and my upper body froze. The scenery stopped being so spectacular after about 5:30 (due to the unfortunate occurrence of the sun going down. Which it seems to do on a somewhat regular basis) and I was left staring at the dark and listening to Bon Iver (I'd run out of interesting podcasts). My head keep dropping into my chest and flopping against the window. My feet kept sizzling and my arms kept shivering.

Only... four more... hours. 

I used the four hours to create problems for myself. Problems that lead to ulcers. 

Did I book the right ticket? I wonder if there are two Ilfracombes in England like there are two Newports in Wales. I wonder if she remembers that I arrive at 21:45... did I remind her? Shoot! I didn't remind her. God, I hope she remembers that I arrive at... What will I do if she forgets? How will I get in touch with her if there's no one else at the station?

It was ten o'clock at night when the National Express 502 finally pulled into Ilfracombe. I had been traveling for nearly seventeen hours, fueled by tomato juice, soggy eggs, bland porridge and a few sticks of gum.

Delicious. 

Harriet was there, waiting for me with a hug and a hand to grab my suitcase.

"It's so nice to meet you!" she exclaimed through the hug. "How was your trip?"

"Exhausting. I've been traveling all day. But it's wonderful to see you," my knees nearly gave out on the way to her car. Goodness, I've turned into such a pansy. 

"Well, you're going to rest tomorrow," Harriet told me. "Don't do anything. Just get your strength back up."

"No, I can --" I refused to give in to my pansy.

"No, just have a day to rest.You don't need to be working after a trip like that!"

We drove the fifteen minutes to her quaint B&B and unloaded my bags into the living room. There was a fireplace, a shelf laden with books on natural medicine, two beanbags on the floor (my favorite type of chair) and little incense burners and candles crammed into every corner.

mmm... yes. I am going to love it here. 

There was a strange flying saucer painting behind the radio with the red lamp perched atop, but I dismissed it with thoughts of, that's fun. Whimsical. Cute. Very Douglass Adams. 

Harriet brought me some soup and slaw. I demolished the nourishing food and then lugged my bag up two flights of stairs to the room I would be sharing with a girl from New Zealand and a girl from America's East Coast.

"What's your experience been like here?" I asked the two amiable ladies.

"Well..." they looked at each other warily.

"What is it?" I looked at each of them nervously. I'd so wanted this place to be a refreshing, wholesome retreat where I could revitalize my soul after three months in a chaotic city. The wary "well" didn't sit nicely at all.

"Harriet... believes a lot of strange things..."

"Like what?"

"Yeah, it's pretty radical here."

"How?"

"Well... she thinks that Jesus came to earth on a flying saucer from Mars. And she's really into E.T.s."

"...oh..." So, you're not exactly in a Muslim country anymore, Bourget. Bit of adapting to be done. Perhaps Douglass Adams prepared me for this experience. I never thought Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy would be so very useful for my life. HA.

After exchanging some travel stories with Rosie and Kayla, I climbed into bed and turned off the lights.

This'll be a strange one. I just... wasn't... Mars? Oy. To each his own. But MARS?