A short log of observations, thoughts and lots of people-watching
My journeys back to one of my homes is always filled with a mixture of loneliness and the feeling of being invisible. I observe what people do, what people say, almost like a spectator in a narrative that’s not mine. I have the occasional WTF moments and then deep ones that make me philosophise and start romanticising the act of simple things like drinking black coffee at the airport. I guess you turn into a part-time psychotic Shakespeare, with all that staring, observing and then ridiculous glamorising of everyday things. Since it’s all quite dramatic, here’s a log of thoughts and observations from when I was on my way back to England.
1.45 pm (Norwegian time)
There’s a group of pensioners sitting in front of me on the train, talking as if they’re teens on their way to a concert, but with more conversational topics that include boats, coach holidays and bad knees, and less alcohol and glitter in their hair. I was wondering if I was listening to my future self or if Norwegian pensioners live too Utopian lives for me to be able to identify with them. I'm pretty sure I'll share the constant complaining about every little thing with them, so that's a start, I guess.
2 pm
A guy on the opposite window next to them seemed to have overheard their conversations as well, and when our eyes met, we laughed a little. I’m still unsure whether it was because of the mutual understanding of how ridiculous their conversations seemed to be, or if we laughed in pain, knowing that we’ll be just like them one day. For the sake of my self-esteem, I'm assuming it's a mixture of both.
2.15 pm
I finally finished my supermarket sushi, which my mother didn’t know was a sin to eat. She bought it to do me one last favour before I would leave her for good, never to be seen again (her words, not mine). It wasn’t awful, but I wouldn’t marry it either if food was marriable and I had the slightest desire to get married.
4 pm
I’ve dropped off my bag, had all my priorities right by buying myself a new book instead of getting food, got a cereal bar anyway, and then I sat down in the waiting area, around 40 minutes before boarding was supposed to start, which obviously meant it wouldn’t start until around 50 minutes, perhaps an hour. I was looking around me and at all the people that were surrounded by the same glass window and three, grey walls like me, wondering what their stories might be. Some of them pretended to concentrate really hard on the work on their computer screens when telling their mum on Facebook that they’ve just made it to the airport. Others read and there was even the occasional, stereotypical suit guy, looking pretty much just like every other guy in a suit, who talked loudly and enthusiastically on the phone as if he’s the important business man in some American Hollywood movie. It’s strange how anonymous people look the same, but they’ve all got different stories to tell, and different destinations to go to.
4.50 pm
Apart from now, obviously, since we were all getting ready for boarding. Why does everyone always push through the door as if there’s some major Black Friday sale on the other side? It’s not like the plane is going to take off earlier if you rush through first. I took a step back and waited for people to get through until the madness was over, and sent my last “It’s been nice knowing you” snaps before my potential death. I’ve died quiet a lot potentially.
7.10 pm (UK time)
I had survived yet again, got myself a good ol’ meal deal, and was waiting to get the elevator that takes people to the underground and train station. A clearly overwhelmed father bummed slightly into me with his trolley bombarded with bags and his little son, who should probably be tested for ADHD or find out whether energy drinks are really that good for a 9 year old. In contrast to his exhausted father, he jumped around and constantly asked his father what’s wrong, who replied that he’s tired in a desperate attempt to shut him up. The kid asked him if he should push the trolley with bags for him, since he was obviously so tired, but the father told him politely to shut up and that he wasn’t strong enough to push it anyway. I imagined how embarrassing it must feel for the father to cause a scene with his kid that everyone was observing and either laughing or eye-rolling at, and it’s almost as if he was trying to justify the behaviour towards his kid by constantly reminding us of how tired he was and how he hadn’t slept for two days. The kid enthusiastically continued to jump around with no worries in the world, but I could tell the father was worrying too much about what everyone else around him was thinking. When we finally entered the elevator and exited it, the one last thing I could hear him say was a relieved “home sweet home”.
8 pm
The tube suddenly seemed even narrower with my monstrosity of a suitcase between my legs, and I kept reminding myself to move it whenever people were trying to get past me. I was glad to have gotten myself a ticket in time so I could comfortably get the next train home. It’s funny that exactly that day, I decided to get a ticket instead of risking to get caught, because only a couple of stops later, a man and a woman in uniforms entered the tube. I could see a slight hint of panic lighten up the face of a man opposite of me, and he cleverly decided to stand up and pretend to wait for the doors to open at the next stop. Realising what he had done, I looked at him and then met the eyes of a guy who had been sitting next to him. We both smiled when we acknowledged that we understood what he had done, and hoped for his sake that his plan was going to be successful and he wouldn’t get caught. The second he left the tube and the uniformed guards walked past him, I applauded quietly for him while guy number two let out a cheerful “YES!!” as to mimic what must’ve been going on in guy number one’s head.
9 pm
I was finally on my train back home, debating whether I should listen to music, continue reading my book or just pretend to sleep to justify my not doing anything at all because of pure exhaustion. I decided it was time for my brain and I to get a break, and the only thing I was worried about now was dragging my suitcase all the way home in the rain. Thank you, Britain, for living up to your stereotype and greeting me with rain on the very first day I’m back.
9.45 pm
I had finally made it to Tara’s, which felt like entering a spa when a cloud of warmth and relaxing music hit me and I got ready to talk with Tara and her mum about our summer trips, and our new lives which had now officially begun. Exactly at 10 pm. UK time.