Jenna Nienhuis

“I don’t know anyone else who would do what you’re doing,” said my sister. “Yeah because they’re smart!” I replied. 

“Bon courage!” texted my supportive friend, Annelise. 

“Will you be traveling alone…just you?” asked the Virgin Airlines agent, unaware of the tears behind my eyes. 

“Coffee or tea?” inquired the British flight attendant. What a luxury to be served. 

“I’m moving home right now. I hated living in L.A.,” declared the 20-something girl in seat 46A. 

“Platform two gets you to Stroud station,” helped the busy father with a stroller and two children. “I’ll follow you!” I announce, as we weave through the sea of people, the steel, and the light of Paddington station. 

“I’ve been traveling for eight months now,” shared the nomad whose 50-pound pack jostled back and forth with the train.

“Ah me too. I’m from Brooklyn! I was just walking this way for a cab to Painswick,” said the American serendipitously. 

“Welcome to Hawkwood”, smiled the innkeeper. “Allow me to get you settled in.”

“For dinner tonight, we have orzo pasta with freshly baked bread. A salad from the garden and a variety of cheeses,” announced the chef. My mouth watered. 

“You will be able to say, ‘I am a writer’ at the end of this,” encouraged the former student. 

“How are you getting on?” inquired Sarah with a compassionate smile. “Homesick for my daughters,” I cried honestly. 

“I had so much to say in that moment, but nothing came out,” inspired the author about her motivation to write the book. 

“Your words are more of a think piece, try inserting your external surroundings more,” critiqued the tutor. 

 “I don’t know if I can do this,” confessed my inner voice.

“Be where your feet are,” reminded my loving husband. 

“All paths in England lead to somewhere, we just don’t always know where,” said Gail as our vinyl pants swished back and forth along the damp, sodden path. 

“I think you are so brave for being here,” said Elizabeth. (To me she was the brave one). 

“Don’t listen to the voices that tell you you’re crap. They’re not your friends – we’re your friends,” encouraged Jon at the precipice of a new adventure. 

“Can I help you with your suitcase?” offered the attendant as we stepped under the white scalloped lattice onto the train back to London Paddington. 

“Heathrow airport is the worst. You have to remove all your toiletries,” scoffed the irritated traveler in the TSA line, also from San Diego. I didn’t mind. 

Nothing was said, as we all huddled around the phone-charging station like a soulless campfire, the scent of duty-free luxury still burning my nostrils, and the booming announcements nagging at my eardrums. 

“I’ve never walked across a Canadian lake before” the slight, older gentleman joked as he shimmied past me on the narrow aisle, alluding to the flight tracker on his tiny screen. “I can barely feel my feet!”. I smiled and laughed, my body too reaching and lunging into unknown spaces.

“I did it”, I texted my therapist quietly, not to alarm the foreboding joy. My eyes caught a glimpse of the crescent moon against the night sky out of the porthole window.

“Welcome home! We missed you Mommy!” read my daughters’ signs as I emerged from the fluorescent arrivals tunnel out of LAX.