Halfway to Hell

I get headaches a lot. It’s probably something I should get checked out, considering these days pretty much drinking too much milk can give you cancer. But I’ve always just brushed it off as either my mind’s abhorrence of the world’s …

Mountains to Climb.

I was thousands of miles away from home when my city’s sense of security and comfort was changed forever.

During the 2013 Boston Marathon Bombings, I was studying abroad in London. I remember sitting on my bed in my dorm room, as I did many a late afternoon after a busy day of classes. Unfortunately, there was of course no day of from school for Patriot’s Day here, being in the very country the patriot’s defied. As well, no Marathon Monday mania to revel in. I was on my laptop, scrolling through Facebook, longing for the familiar faces and places of home as I was getting very antsy to return to America during my last few weeks there.

I remember all of a sudden posts and links to articles started popping up out of nowhere all over every popular social media outlet and news site. “BREAKING NEWS” glared over my computer screen. I of course, immediately clicked on them once I saw my friends were all sharing them at a rapid speed. I looked on in horror at what I saw. Just a few seconds in after I started digesting the first link I clicked on, my friend Laurie, who lived in the room next door came bursting into my room to ask me if I had seen what happened. We started frantically messaging friends and family to see if our loved ones alright. Thankfully they were, but a lot came very close to real life danger. Everyone in the city was, really. As the who’s, what’s and why’s were still very much unanswered following the events for about a week. Most of our friends were of course in rehearsal for their upcoming show, which is probably where we would have been, had we been in Boston at the time. Theatre, being the safe haven it is for so many, served its’ purpose that day.

Over the next few days, my fellow Boston friends and I felt very numb to the whole situation. We were constantly looking up for all the incoming details. I spent a whole day just watching live feeds from CNN and the local Boston news outlets to get all the info. We felt so left out and uninformed, and just lost. Many of our family and friends had messaged us, praising how glad they were that we were here and away from harm. But so badly I wanted to be anywhere BUT here. I didn’t belong here. London had become my stomping grounds at that point in time, but while I loved it very much, it was never my home. Having lived in Massachusetts my entire life, growing up just an hour away from the city, Boston had always been my home. But I had never really experienced it all until I moved there for college in 2011. It’s the place where I’ve danced with friends on dirty couches from apartment to apartment. Where I’ve strolled through the Common on a late summer night, laughing with friends and laying in the grass to pass around a bottle of cheap wine as we gazed up at the stars that we could barely see. It’s the city where I’ve lost myself in the sights and sounds and beautiful people of a “strong, resilient town”. And only now had I felt so far from home. I should’ve been there, with my friends and family and people and places I had grown to love. I wasn’t home.

I got a bad bout of strep throat that week, probably from over stressing and long nights. Our college not having the best health services, I had to travel to a free clinic off Oxford Street, in a hidden, quaint area. It took me quite a while to find it, but as I walked into the health clinic, the blotched glass automatic doors quickly slid behind me. I looked around at the amount of people in there, trying to estimate how long I’d have to wait. The answer was “long”. There were tons of people in there. The receptionist had curly brown hair and a thick accent I couldn’t place just in one district or country. She told me to “take a number and wait, please”. So, I did. The waiting room was rather large, filled with rows upon rows of plastic chairs facing three large television screens to entertain us as we waited. I, of course, sat in the very last chair in the very last row. I was not about to make friends with the ill and maimed. I was in no mood.

The room was filled with all kinds of people, there were a few rather, I should say “unkempt” people in the room, who I had assumed as homeless, but I wouldn’t want to stereotype. Of course, they were wearing many different layers of mismatched sweaters and coats with large pockets while grasping onto push carriages holding everything they owned and various signs boasting pitiful stories of lost jobs and pleas for spare change. So, maybe they were homeless. But there were also your everyday people here. Coming in for flu’s, sprained ankles, medications, anything. It was a free clinic after all. I looked up at the televisions. They were, of course, broadcasting the total coverage of the events of the bombings. Everyone seemed to be tuned in and discussing the tragedy as well as the crazy news coverage that was going on at the time. I wanted to shout out, “I’m from there!” “I know that place, I see it everyday!”, and most of all, I wanted to tell people it’s a very safe city, or was. But no one would care. So I kept my mouth shut, and already feeling sick, felt much sicker as I took in every little detail of the news updates sweeping across the screens. That was when I saw President Obama’s speech concerning the events for the first time. I felt a bit safer. Obama is such a wonderful orator. Say what you want about his politics, because most of them I won’t understand, but you can’t deny that he ensures a supreme sense of comfort and reassurance. It was much needed at this point.

Suddenly, my name was called out and I walked into the office. I was out of there in about one minute. A very quick-talking, tall doctor with short blonde hair inspected my throat and tonsils and had discovered that I had strep throat. She didn’t do a throat culture or anything of that sort as it would’ve been ” a waste of time”. She was very short with me, so I decided not to ask questions, grab my prescription for penicillin, and get out of here. I felt I was getting sicker just by sitting in this place. As I left the building, I looked back at the televisions one more time to see if there was anything new on the bombings. Someone had changed the channel, to what the British and the rest of the world call “football”, but most of us know as soccer. Guess no one in the room really did care about where I was from.

A week went by, with few answers on the event. I felt a variety of mixed emotions and unsureness. My roommate back in Boston had told me all about the lockdown and how eerie it was. She especially told me how unsafe she felt, as we had discovered the car chase that happened in the middle of the night and ultimately resulted in the tragic death of an MIT officer ended up with the terrorists speeding right down my own street. It was all so strange. My home might have been shaken by a tragedy, but it was by no means broken.

However, I couldn’t think much of it. Laurie and I had a planned trip to Scotland that weekend. It was our very last trip of the semester. We had seen the lights and luxury of Paris, traveled across practically the whole boot of Italy and Barcelona, and had a bit TOO much fun in both Dublin and of course, Amsterdam. But a trip to the beautiful city of Edinburgh in Scotland was our last big venture during this journey.

For a few trips, saving big bucks, Laurie and I took travel buses to our destination. They were by no means glamorous, but they were affordable and got us to where we were going. We actually had just planned for a day trip in Edinburgh, to get there extremely early and leave around nightfall. It would be one long journey, almost 6 hours, but it would be worth it. Plus, earlier in the month we had driven much longer (11 hours from London to Amsterdam, by bus, ferry, and crossing three countries, don’t talk to me about it). We got up rather early to set out to for Victoria Coach Station. With just our day bags on our backs and coffee in our hands, we set out on one of the MegaBuses for Edinburgh. It was of course still dark out and everyone was extremely cranky and a bit smelly while piled up in this over-crowded bus for the land of the Scots. But Laurie and I were excited, having both been very inexperienced travelers up until we journeyed to Europe, we were thrilled to experience our last crazy trip together. And very tired.

When we first arrived to Edinburgh, the air was chilly and the sunrise- gorgeous as it poured over the rolling green hills and behind the old castles. It truly was a fairytale land here. The city reminded me so much of the villages of the Harry Potter universe, with it’s stone buildings and cobbled streets. The architecture was a mix of old medieval and neoclassical, it was beautiful. We took some time to just explore our surroundings, just before coming across a coffee shop while walking The Royal Mile to rest a bit and wake up. But to be honest, I think we both were ultimately grateful we had finally found a place with WiFi to finally catch up on all the news of the marathon bombings. We were sitting at a small table in the back of a crowded cafe in the middle of Edinburgh when we got the news. I checked my Facebook on my phone to find tons and tons of posts claiming the marathon bomber had been captured after the whirlwind of events. I then checked my LONG list of snapchat’s from friends back home, as a large group of students, including many college students, had run into the Common in the middle of the night to scream and cheer in triumph. Chants of “Boston Strong” and “USA” pounded through my phone’s speaker as I saw my friends dancing and screaming, chugging beer and taking pictures with half naked men. The amazing sense of pride and victory and justice and strength was so evident, and it truly made me long for home. I was so grateful my city could begin to heal the wound, and that their security could be restructured.

With hearing the great news and the worry off our mind, Laurie and I decided to set out into the city again. We started to peruse the streets, visiting various shops and museums, including a very creepy walkabout through the Greyfriar’s Cemetery. But after enjoying a spot of tea and cookies at the Elephant House, (where JK Rowling wrote many of her novels, I DIED) and enjoying bagpipe street performers, we finally came across the behemoth that had been standing amongst our horizon the entire day, the mountain that was Arthur’s Seat.

The giant hill was located in the center of the city, it was pretty hard to miss and was a notorious point of interest for travelers, as it’s been fabled to be the possible location for the legendary Camelot. I had never been one to do any hiking or mountain-climbing, partly because it never really interested me and partly because I never had the right shoes for it. Today was no exception, as I was wearing very thin gray desert boots and skinny jeans that were not meant to leap across rocky gorges. But this was part of our big adventure. I always said to myself while I was abroad to “live without fear”, and this was no exception. Being something I had never done before, it made it all the more enticing.

We set foot on the steep slope that provided a dirty trail to start off climbing the mountain. It was relatively easy to climb for the most part, and every step up the mountain gave the most amazing views of the city below as we escalated higher and higher out of sight. It wasn’t so easy on the feet or knees, but it was exhilarating. I took out my phone and started to blast “Big Rock Candy Mountain” in order for us to gain some momentum.

A few weeks before this trip, Laurie and I had gotten into a rather unsettling fight. We were best friends but being together so much for that amount of time, in addition to the various crazy events we went through while in London really took a toll on our friendship. The fight of course resulted in a lot of crying and even more hugging, our favorite activities, but it was still eye-opening. I think every good friendship has moments that either shake them or break them. Ours would be fine, we knew too much about each other for it not to. But as we set out for Edinburgh, I was really hoping our last trip together would give us a chance to reconnect and resolve the past issues, to really strengthen our relationship. And it did.

The whole way up the mountain, Laurie and I were laughing, cracking jokes, absorbing every bit of the nature around us for what it was. We bumped into frantic dogs chasing rabbits, tourists taking pictures, and other travelers from all over the world, all climbing the mountain for one simple goal: to reach the top.

Every so often, the trail would let loose, leaving big rocky fields for us to pass through, jumping stone over stone to get by. Past these little dips, the trail would go up, leaving us to climb steep rock stairs, almost like a ladder in order to get to a more stable ledge. At one point while climbing  one of these difficult spots, Laurie had lost her grip and almost slipped off a rocky ledge. I grabbed her hand and helped pick her back up. It wasn’t the most difficult mountain in the world to climb by any means, but it was still a feat and rather difficult. It could prove to be extremely dangerous were you not looking where you were going or took a wrong step. After her brief brush with a long falling death, we got back on track to make it to the top, taking just a few breaks to stop and enjoy the magnificent views of the Scottish highlands and lochs off in the horizon. We found a trail of steps that looked like they were straight out of a fantasy novel, leading up to a large plain in the mountain. As we ran up them in excitement, we had made our way to what we THOUGHT was the top. The wind was blowing extremely hard and very chilly. The large plain at this part of the mountain was flat and rather expansive. The green field of grass swept across this side of the mountain and swayed with the push of the wind. Many people were taking breaks here to rest, have lunch, or take in the near fantastical landscape. We had noticed that we had just a short ways to go to the top, but took a moment here to fully take in what we had accomplished as we ran around the plain spinning and laughing while recreating the hills scene from “The Sound of Music”, because they truly were alive. No wonder this place was fabled to be a land of legends.

At this moment, we took some time to eat lunch. We found a nice patch of the grass to sit on, away from the noise and cluster of tourists snapping pictures like crazy for their family Christmas cards no doubt. So the two of us sat on the grass and started to eat our peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on the top of a mountain. We were two friends, for the first time in a long time without a care in the world. It was so beautiful to just be able to sit freely in such an unlikely situation, eating PB&J on a mountain in Scotland. We were miles and miles away from any home we had ever known. With just the beauty of the mountain, some homemade sandwiches, and of course each other to keep us company. A PB&J never tasted so good.

After our lunch, we decided to brave the last stride up Arthur’s Seat. But after getting up to go, we noticed that many people on the mountain were picking up various stones scattered across the plateau and arranging them together to leave their mark, or messages of love in the deep green grass of Arthur’s Seat. Laurie and I decided it would be right of us to spell out something for Boston in the stones that laid around us. But someone had beaten us to it! As we stumbled right into a large formation of rocks that read “BOSTON”. I can’t be sure if the people who left this gift were from Boston or even America. They could’ve been from anywhere in the world leaving a message of support, prayer, and well wishes. Whomever it was and whichever the reason, it was a beautiful gesture. And it was made from just rocks in the grass.

We climbed the last few ledges of the mountain, but it was very steep, so we each had to help the other up at one point or another as we grasped onto nearby rocks, in order to not slip on the soft dirt that looked almost untouched but had to have seen footprint over footprint over thousands of years. The air was getting thinner and thinner and tried to push us in all sorts of directions as we made our way to the summit. It was only when we scaled one seemingly miniscule ledge that we saw the bobbing of heads over the extremely rocky span that had a stone post to signal it as the top of Arthur’s Seat. We had made it to the top of the mountain.

The wind was sweeping by us, the air was sparse and bitterly cold. I nearly lost my hat and Laurie’s long, red hair was flowing by a mile a minute, slapping me in the face one too many times. But we didn’t care. We had made it. We looked around at the land below us. The view was breathtaking. I could say it was truly magnificent, but it wouldn’t do it justice. The feeling of finally reaching the top was exhilarating. It was an accomplishment I could never previously say I had done. I could finally add “mountain climber” to my resume, just like I had always dreamed.

We looked around at the horizon in front of us, gasping for air. As beautiful as it all was. The wind was too much to handle and it was freezing up here. We asked a nice woman if she’d mind taking our picture, proof we had accomplished what we set out to do. When we looked at it, we couldn’t stop laughing at how gross and exhausted we were, painted smiles cutting through the chill of the gusty mountain air. It’s a terrible picture, my beanie was lopsided and the woman’s thumb was in the lower frame. We look ridiculous in it, but I wouldn’t want it any other way.

We stayed for only a moment before making our way back down, as we had a few things left in Edinburgh we wanted to do. It was still early in the day and we didn’t want to waste a second of it. We felt like warriors for accomplishing what we had, truly skilled mountaineers. Of course, coming back down, I almost slipped to my death, and had to crouch my way down for most of it, while Laurie helped me much like I had aided her earlier. Watching me try to get down the mountain’s crazy ledges while in a crouching position and my beanie so far down my eyes it nearly covered them so it wouldn’t fly away was quite the sight. It took everything in our power not to die laughing, literally.

As we finally made it to the base of another side of the mountain, completely opposite of where we had started, we found the most beautiful knoll of grass in a field of dandelions. We decided this was a perfect stop to take another rest before setting out of the fantasy world of the mountain and back into the real world in front of us again. We layed on the warm grass and basked in the sun, the first bit of warmth we felt all day. Spring was nearing on this side as the rays of sun cut through the bright white clouds that drifted across the sky. We just laid there, talked, practically about nothing, just enjoying the day and each other’s conversation.

The rest of the day was spent exploring the remainder of the city including Edinburgh Castle and a pit stop at Pizza Express (mountain climbers gotta eat too). When evening approached, we set out for the area near the bus station. We got there very early by happy accident of not realizing how close it was to us. But we didn’t want to miss the bus of course, so we decided to sit on a park bench in the nearby neighborhood. We sat and people-watched residents of Edinburgh go about their day, crossing over the sloping hills and stone streets. We talked for hours sharing stories from back home, laughing, talking about the people and things we missed. As amazing as this trip was, in light of recent events, we were sure antsy to get back to our real home.

As we made our way to the coach station, loading up on the bus back home, Laurie and I sat in the front on the top deck in order to get some better leg room and hopefully some sleep. It was late at night and we were exhausted from the unforgettable last adventure we had. As we sat in our uncomfortable seats together, with nowhere to put our feet, just as we tried to get some shut-eye, a very large, LOUD Hispanic family gleefully sat next to us on the bus. They were certainly in high spirits as they talked and yelled and joked and laugh and sang the whole way home. I turned to Laurie and could do nothing else but just laugh with them. And she laughed back. We had strengthened our bond so much that day. We both climbed more than one mountain together, in terms of friendship. We rescued each other. Shared stories together. Made memories with each other. And longed together.

But on that midnight ride back to London, I thought about how much I was missing home that week and how sad it was. The marathon bombing to this day has influenced my course of thinking and sense of security to a great degree. But I didn’t want to look at what happened then as purely a thing of tragedy and sadness. If anything, it brought people closer to home. It instilled a sense of pride, resiliency, and strength. It had people talking about relationships with both the city and Bostonians, as well as memories of the past and hope for the future of the city. Yet in this moment, I was thinking about how even though Boston is my home, you can have many homes. Some people are born adventurers, restless and ambitious,  always looking for the next journey traveling from place to place. Some are born planters, firmly adjusting themselves to the home they have known, dedicating themselves to their preservation in it. And some people are born wanderers, who don’t really know where they’re going, but know where they want to be.

People can have many homes. People can find a home in themselves. I can’t be certain if I’m a wanderer, but so far it suits me best. Because a home is not defined as a place you’ve known, or experienced, or even lived in.

It’s a place where you’re happy.

Boston is my home for now, but as long as there’s still mountains to climb, I will wander.