From March 25th to April 3rd of 2019, I was part of Witness for Peace Solidarity Collective's delegation to Honduras. The theme of the delegation was "Migration and Social Movements."
I woke up early (natch) and did my Morning Pages writing exercise (3 pages of stream-of-consciousness writing, as prescribed in The Artist’s Way).
Meredith and I got to the dining room before breakfast. She playfully said I “ghosted” them the night before. She hadn’t been around for my midnight encore. I remained quiet throughout breakfast despite my eagerness to chat.
Meredith, Lisa and I took a Minnesota group shot on the front patio by the fountain. I left a bunch of my clothes behind so as to create more space in my backpack, which was the only luggage I’d brought. I hope the staff appreciated my underwear and socialist t-shirt.
The hotel had washed my underwear, and it felt a bit coarse, so I didn’t mind leaving it behind. I should’ve left my Honduran money behind too, because I didn’t spend or exchange it before I got home. Now I’m stuck with 240 lempiras (about $15) for the foreseeable future.
Finally, we hugged our goodbye’s. I really wanted to break down in tears then, but I just couldn’t let myself fall to pieces like that. I couldn’t show these people I’d just met how much they meant to me after just 10 days together.
Carlos drove Ellen, Lisa and I to the airport. When we got there, he helped us unload. With a big smile, he shook my hand and said he hoped I’d return.
This was Lisa’s first time traveling abroad, so Ellen and I tried to guide her through the process, but we got separated at the check-in stations. We were still looking for her in front of the security checkpoint when she swept by, saying, “Goodbye!”
She had to stop and come back though to get through security, so we went through together. (Ellen called it “security theater,” which I think is an apt name.)
Lisa’s plane was the first to board. Ellen and I hugged her before she left.
While waiting at the gate, Betty, Diana, Emily and Meredith showed up, so we chatted a bit with them. Another round of hugs ensued before Ellen and I took off for Houston.
Ellen was in first class thanks to her frequent flying. From my seat in coach, I could see the Mary Poppins Returns trailer playing in perfect synchronicity on the back of almost every seat.
I was back in the immaculately clean and orderly First World. But I was alone again. That’s the problem with the bourgeois lifestyle: It’s nice and neat, but lonely. I stuck in ear buds, but it didn’t feel good, so I took ‘em out after a few minutes.
I knew writing was the way to go, to deal with the sadness in lieu of talking, so I started working on this account of the trip. I looked at the young woman next to me. There was an empty seat between us, so I put my jacket there after she put something on it.
The Houston airport was a long series of lines to go through customs and security again. Someone thought breaking up the lines was their way of fooling us into thinking we were almost done when we got to the end of each one. I think it might just be their way to get Americans to do more walking.
Ellen texted me after I got to my gate, and I responded. That was our only interaction. The flight to MSP was fine, I guess. I took the light rail from the airport and got back to my apartment around 10pm, but I had to work the next day.
Of course, I was up ‘til midnight snacking, per usual. The trip hadn’t freed me from the sense that I was stuck in an endless rut. There wasn’t even a nice afterglow.
(Fear not, dear readers. I’m not gonna leave ya flat with an ending like that. There will be an epilogue.)
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