Page 2 of The Warmth of Our Closest Star

I was on my way to America.

On a plane

Using a ticket that I purchased with my own money.

Nervously, I reached for my carry-on bag—a sad overnight bag I had purchased secondhand at a thrift shop days before my trip—and frantically unzipped the side pocket.

My passport. It was still there. Next to my medication.

I chuckled nervously to myself as I moved the passport from the bag’s compartment to my right hip pocket. One last glance reassured me that I had not forgotten my medication. Zipping the bag closed once more, I dragged it from the compartment and slung it over my shoulder. Briefly, I considered whether my carry-on and suitcase—that I’d retrieve at the luggage claim after disembarking—would seem meager to Peter. Would it embarrass me? Would it embarrass him?

For almost exactly two years, I’d been working for a large multi-national corporation that specialized in interpretation and translation services. The job for which Peter had recommended me. I was low on the rungs and was not much more than a glorified office assistant, but I’d managed to catch up on my rent. Though it was secondhand and I’d had to spend an entire afternoon cleaning it well, I had a sofa in my living room. I’d purchased a small television—which sat on a secondhand table—that I could only watch free OTA channels and secondhand DVDs on since premium television services seemed an extravagance. I’d purchased new sheets for my bed. I had three pairs of new shoes. My kitchen was never food bare, though the specter of my impoverished past often demanded that I eat simple pasta dinners so that I did not feel I had overspent. I never made myself eat less than I wanted, however.

An elaborate homecooked meal with a nicer cut of meat or an exotic ingredient once a week was no longer out of the question, however. I had a warm comforter for my bed and a new phone—though nothing fancy—with a charger whose cord was not frayed. There was a large rug in my living room that I’d found at an estate sale for what amounted to twenty dollars, so my feet were never cold on the floorboards in the mornings. It had needed a good cleaning as well and was a bit threadbare at the corners, but I owned a rug.

Somehow, I’d managed to save money to update my passport, buy a plane ticket, and purchase a few new outfits for my trip to America. Luggage that was new and fancy had been out of the question. Thrift store finds were what I ended up with in the end. But they were clean, sturdy, and served their purpose. And they belonged to me.

I found that I was proud of my overnight bag that was slung over my shoulder. Peter would think nothing of the way it looked. I hoped.

Had I achieved enough in two years so that I would not seem the street rat he had met in Montreal two years prior? Still skinny, though I’d managed to gain fifteen pounds since I’d last seen him, I wondered if seeing me would be pleasing to him. Would I look less like the gangly, awkward young man who walked the city streets as long as he could each day to avoid going home to a hollow apartment filled with intangible, yet painful memories?

Would he like to know that sitting on my sofa at home, eating dinner, and watching television didn’t feel as lonely as it once would have? In the two years since we’d first and last seen each other, did he wonder how many nights I shivered in bed, praying for the next paycheck when I could maybe, finally afford better bedding? Would he be curious to know that the first pair of shoes I bought were so warm that I actually cried because my toes were not freezing when I got home from the store? Did he want to know that I had a bus pass and didn’t have to walk anywhere unless I wanted to get exercise?

Did he want to know that every night, when I lay in bed, and my hand crept under the covers, he was my only thought? That when explosions went off throughout my body and stars danced in my eyes, his face was burned in the sky of my imagination? He was the constellation my ecstasy brought into creation each night—a collection of resplendent stars, and I reveled in their warmth.

Butterflies invaded my belly. Though I’d managed to keep myself from thinking about the real purpose of my first visit to America for two years, and during the short flight, reality had presented itself suddenly. Exiting the plane, and then after having my passport and luggage possibly checked, a face I hadn’t seen in two years would be before me. What would come then?

There was nothing to do but force my mind back into a mode of denial. America. That was my goal. Visiting America. Peter had yet to see me and it could very well turn out that the memory of me had not burned as brightly for him. Maybe I was not his constellation any longer. Not even a single star. Perhaps a flame that burned dimly in the recesses of his brain, but more appealing as a concept than a reality. My first trip to America could merely be my first trip to America. Nothing more.

At the front of the line of people disembarking the plane for the bridge gate, I was surprised, though I shouldn’t have been, when the flight attendants welcomed me to the U.S. Embarking in Canada, I had been greeted in French and English. Now it was only English. Reality sunk deeper into my mind as it became clear that I was a stranger in a strange land. Never had I visited a foreign country on my own.

If I couldn’t think of the English word for something, who could help me?

My English was fine. I could easily hold a conversation with someone who only knew English. But there were still words that might prove troublesome. Eight years in Canada had not exactly perfected my English. Particularly. I had to avoid using particularly. I always got tongue-tied with that word. If I could avoid certain words, I would be fine. My heart raced, though not for entirely unpleasant reasons. Monsieur Paquette, whose ESL classes I still attended in the classroom over the Chinese restaurant—and still paid for with housekeeping duties—thought my English constantly needed improving. However, the pride in his silent grin when I told him I was to visit America alone was obvious. He’d offered me the use of his personal luggage for the trip, but I was determined to procure my own, even if it was secondhand.

In the months leading up to my trip, I’d studied American currency and Imperial measurements and weights. I’d taught myself the difference between Celsius and Fahrenheit. I was amused to find that Canada and the United States were not greatly different compared to France and the United States. I’d studied maps of Minneapolis and looked up locations of interest in the city. I tried to learn as much as I could about customs that were unique to America. People in America love smiles and warmth and small talk and appreciative, uproarious laughter. Do not discuss politics or how things are “weird” in America. Do not insult the culture, even if there seems to be none. I would be fine. Even if Peter did not greet me as warmly as I wished, I could do well in America for the two weeks of my trip.

“Enjoy your stay in the U.S.!” The flight attendant exclaimed brightly as I stepped off of the plane and onto the gate bridge. “Thank you for flying with us!”

“Thank you,” I said with a smile.

A warm “thank you” goes a long way when one isn’t sure what else to say. For mere moments I was lost in thought about the exchange before I realized I was on a gate bridge leading from a plane into an American airport. It took all I had to keep from running excitedly along the pathway into the airport so that I would officially be in America. When I remembered that Customs was the last stop before I was legally and officially in America, I was able to calm myself. There were more steps to complete before my feet touched down in a new country.

Stepping off of the gate bridge into the bustling airport was enthralling. Even though removed from the bustle of passengers and visitors seeing off or picking up travelers, it was overwhelming. Not necessarily in a bad way, but my senses were overloaded by the sights and sounds as my eyes danced from one person to the next. American airports—from what I could tell—were no different than many others throughout the developed world. People rushed here and there, people spoke loudly, and airline employees worked to provide tickets, check luggage, and help passengers with issues. But this was America. It was special for that reason alone.

The process to get through the line at Customs was neither as stringent nor as nerve-wracking as the picture my mind had conjured. Though it seemed a whirlwind and I could barely process what was transpiring at the rate it was happening. Most people were waved through after their passport was merely given a glance. At my turn with the agent, he simply gave my passport a glance.

“You don’t look very Canadian,” he said.

“How does one look Canadian?” I asked, confused.

Was I supposed to be wearing a toque even in summer?

He, along with his coworker, laughed, and I was waved through.

And I was in America. Again, my eyes danced around the scene before me. People rushed here and there—many in much more comfortable clothing than I had chosen for my flight. Compared to Americans, my dark slacks and long-sleeve button-down, collared shirt seemed incredibly glamorous. Sweatpants, jeans, t-shirts, and sneakers seemed customary in American airports.

People walked by, shooting casual smiles at me as they held giant coffees and soft pretzels as big as their heads. Suitcases in every color of the rainbow wheeled past, missing my toes by centimeters. Fellow travelers said “hello” and asked “how’re you” and wished me a good trip but rarely waited for any kind of response. A smile and a nod became my standard greeting as I stood there, taking in everything around me.