Gate E8
I am sitting in at gate E8, Schiphol Airport, Amsterdam. Before you begin to wonder, hash is not sold in the airport. I already checked. The crowd around me, sitting in the vaguely uncomfortable black fake leather chairs is diverse, a range of ages and identifiable ethnic backgrounds, if not nationalities. The airport is quite efficient, one of the most efficient I have passed through so far, and they give you real stamps on your passport. Everything is in English and all of the employees speak the language with enviable command of everyday lexicon.
There are a couple of dutch kids sitting across from me. They are probably related and obviously spoiled. I’d guess about 14 years old. The more vocal of the pair has just opened up his lap top which sports two bumper stickers: one which reads “I ride soccer moms” and the other stating “Skiing is for little FAT kids” The irony is that this little snowboarder is plump himself, at least for a European. This is going to be a fun wait.
So, why am I waiting in an Amsterdam airport? Because this afternoon I will be landing in LAX at 12:35 pm, having left Paris at 8:05 am (don’t ask about the travel time), and Amsterdam was the cheapest city to go through. My grandmother, Helen Legacki, a vibrant woman and mother of eight, will see her ninetieth birthday Saturday morning. So me, my family, my 14 aunts and uncles and three times as many cousins and second cousins, are converging on Long Beach, CA for a party, Legacki style. Friday night is the family party followed by Saturday afternoon’s friends and family party, followed by another family party Saturday night (although this time with the emphasis on alcohol consumption rather than nostalgia). Then there is brunch on Sunday, but not too early.
It will be my first time back in the states since August 15th, 2004, and I am so excited I have not been able to sleep much in the past couple of nights. At some point in the past few months I realized just how much of an ‘American girl’ I am, a sentiment I feel more strongly the longer I am away. I don’t know how it will feel to be back, although I expect some sort of sensory overload from being able to understand all of the conversations around me, the words printed on signs, the references to places, people and events that I have not yet acquired in France. I will probably be vaguely annoyed at how loud Americans are, how they really are fat, and the way that food and life is consumed. But those annoyances are like the popping of my dad’s jaw at the dinner table, or the way my mother chews gum or my brother’s mumbling or my sister’s way of interrupting me with completely unrelated comments. Sure, it drives me crazy but I love them, not because of, nor despite, those flaws.
I will be in LA for four days and then head up to Berkeley for a week, my little paradise. All I have to survive is the twelve hour plane flight and that little dutch punk sitting across from me.
There are a couple of dutch kids sitting across from me. They are probably related and obviously spoiled. I’d guess about 14 years old. The more vocal of the pair has just opened up his lap top which sports two bumper stickers: one which reads “I ride soccer moms” and the other stating “Skiing is for little FAT kids” The irony is that this little snowboarder is plump himself, at least for a European. This is going to be a fun wait.
So, why am I waiting in an Amsterdam airport? Because this afternoon I will be landing in LAX at 12:35 pm, having left Paris at 8:05 am (don’t ask about the travel time), and Amsterdam was the cheapest city to go through. My grandmother, Helen Legacki, a vibrant woman and mother of eight, will see her ninetieth birthday Saturday morning. So me, my family, my 14 aunts and uncles and three times as many cousins and second cousins, are converging on Long Beach, CA for a party, Legacki style. Friday night is the family party followed by Saturday afternoon’s friends and family party, followed by another family party Saturday night (although this time with the emphasis on alcohol consumption rather than nostalgia). Then there is brunch on Sunday, but not too early.
It will be my first time back in the states since August 15th, 2004, and I am so excited I have not been able to sleep much in the past couple of nights. At some point in the past few months I realized just how much of an ‘American girl’ I am, a sentiment I feel more strongly the longer I am away. I don’t know how it will feel to be back, although I expect some sort of sensory overload from being able to understand all of the conversations around me, the words printed on signs, the references to places, people and events that I have not yet acquired in France. I will probably be vaguely annoyed at how loud Americans are, how they really are fat, and the way that food and life is consumed. But those annoyances are like the popping of my dad’s jaw at the dinner table, or the way my mother chews gum or my brother’s mumbling or my sister’s way of interrupting me with completely unrelated comments. Sure, it drives me crazy but I love them, not because of, nor despite, those flaws.
I will be in LA for four days and then head up to Berkeley for a week, my little paradise. All I have to survive is the twelve hour plane flight and that little dutch punk sitting across from me.
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