The Odyssey: Part Two

How I Stopped Worrying and Learned to Love the Greyhound

I chose to be a New Zealander for two reasons. One being that, after watching countless hours of Flight of the Conchords (okay, and Lord of the Rings special features), just about every accent I attempt comes out Kiwi anyways. Secondly, I figured that New Zealand was obscure enough that anyone suspicious of my actual origins would be too nervous to call my bluff.

Now, I've faked accents before--Jennifer and I find it a perfectly acceptable way to endure the agony of shopping--but always on the short-term. This was going to test my resolve. The question was: do I have the stamina, the wherewithal, if you will, to fake an accent for the entire ride?

The answer is yes, I do.

So, I prepared a little backstory. Jih-ssica was "on holiday in the States, visiting family." One of her "mates got married in Ahh-kin-sawr," so that's what she was doing there. She had tried to fly out of Little Rock on a buddy pass for the past two days, but after missing eight flights in a row, she had finally broken down and purchased a Greyhound bus ticket. (You'll notice I didn't deviate too much from my own narrative here; I didn't see any need to confuse myself). She was excited, though, as the Greyhound ride would give her a chance to "see America from the road" (though she found the scenery from Little Rock to Memphis "rather boring.")

I boarded the bus and looked around nervously for a free seat. The Greyhound gets scarier the closer you get to the back (take Exhibit A: Creepy Guy in Wifebeater with Tattoos on his Head), so I happily found a spot in the middle, next to a curly-headed guy who reeked of smoke but looked friendly enough.

After we got going, I asked a few friendly questions about Greyhound bus riding (questions I actually wanted to know the answers to, as I was a first-timer), until he finally took the bait: "If you don't mind me asking, where are you from?" I didn't mind, not at all. He asked if I knew Flight of the Conchords, and I expressed my appreciation to them for "putting us on the map." We carried on a bit, and I gave him my backstory. When we got to Memphis, I asked if you could see "the Elvis home" from the road (I started to tell him that my parents are just nuts about Elvis, that all New Zealanders are, that my father was an impersonator and my little sister was named Lisa Marie, but I thought this might be a little much). I sat on the edge of my seat and gave a rather convincing portrayal of a foreigner seeing Memphis for the first time--Steven (my new friend's name) kindly pointed out the Pyramid as we crossed the bridge.

When I boarded the bus, I had been past the point of exhaustion, after only getting four hours of sleep the night before, plus the emotional turmoil of the Standby Crisis. But the adrenaline rush of lying so outrageously revived me considerably, and this whole time I was inwardly buzzing. If I seem a little pleased with myself...I totally was.

Steven and I bid farewell when he got off at Memphis. I then had an hour to kill at the station while a crew cleaned the bus, so I started looking for new friends. It was there that I met Teddy, a sweet, surprisingly mature 15-year old traveling with her 10-year old sister. They were headed to Louisville ("that's where I'm from," she said, in as subtle attempt as she could manage to get me to reveal my homeland). Teddy "just love[d] [my] accent" ("Oh, I love yours!"), and in my naive-foreigner mode, I stuck close to her, depending on her American expertise. And yes, I did feel like somewhat of a dirtbag for duping this perfectly nice girl--but if not for my forged personality I probably wouldn't have met her in the first place....so. Teddy and I went our separate ways at Nashville around midnight, but not before I got a picture with my "new American mates." (I probably said "mates" too much).

My ride got decidedly quieter in the wee morning hours, and I had to keep reminding myself I was foreign as I got progressively sleepier. Nashville to Atlanta passed in an uncomfortable blur, as I found sleeping on the Greyhound virtually impossible. When I finally got to Atlanta, I decided the jig was up; I hadn't really talked to anyone lately anyways (which was probably a good thing; I think my accent got decidedly more British as the night wore on). But I will always remember fondly my time as a New Zealander on the Greyhound.

And if Steven or Teddy ever happen to come across this blog...I'm really sorry.

The Odyssey: A Story in Two Parts

Saturday at around 12:00 PM, I arrived at the Little Rock airport to catch a flight back to Atlanta.

Two days, eight missed flights, and one 14 and 1/2 Greyhound bus journey later, I finally made it home.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you The Odyssey.

Part One: Standby Me

Not too long ago, I proclaimed my gushing love for all things airport. Perhaps I should have qualified myself. Though I do love airports, I hate--nay loathe--flying standby.

For those of you who've never flown standby, let me describe it for you. When you fly standby, all confirmed passengers are your enemies. You nervously count heads and the gate, silently groaning with every new arrival. The passengers who come rushing up at the eleventh hour (or far worse, ambling up), after you've allowed yourself the smallest shred of hope to get on the plane, are the very spawn of Satan. Especially the grown woman who arrived inexplicably out of breath, crying, and--here's the kicker--holding her tennis shoes. (But I digress). You wait with your heart in your throat while zone after zone is called to board--Zone 1, Zone 2, Zone 3--while you remain firmly entrenched in the No Fly Zone.

Herein lies the problem of flying to Atlanta. No one in their right mind is actually going to Atlanta for pleasure, but everyone--everyone.--is flying through Atlanta to get somewhere else (ahh, the joys of living in a Delta hub). So every flight to Atlanta is packed like it's the last helicopter out of Vietnam. I can't even count the number of hours I've spent waiting standby at Gate 2 (always Gate 2) of the Little Rock airport, but undoubtedly, it gets the award for Gate at which Most Time has been Killed by Jessica Merrill. And in case you're wondering, the Little Rock airport is among the world's worst in which to kill time. Past security, there is one bookstore, one newsstand, a small food court, two coffee shops, and one bar (which, I'm sorry to say, became a temptation). I was better at amusing myself on Day 1 of waiting, but by Day 2 I would have almost paid someone to come and talk to me. I could tell my emotions were getting the better of me when the Starbucks barista told me my small coffee (small coffee!) would be two dollars, and I nearly burst into tears (I'm not kidding).

So, after about 249 despondent phone calls to my mother, eight flights packed solid that I was not on, and hopeless forecasts from the gate agent for the next and last two, it was decided that the best option in Operation: Get Jess Home was for me to take a Greyhound.

So I thought to myself, if you must take a Greyhound, you might as well make it interesting...right?

And that's how I became Jih-ssica, the friendly New Zealander tourist.

Here Comes the Divide

Today is the last day that all the Merrills live in the same house. Tomorrow, we drive to Searcy and prepare to give my sister away on Monday. And I don't feel the least bit ready.

The reality of it comes and goes. It came at me full force this morning around 5:30 am, as I lay in my bed and suddenly felt like I couldn't breathe.

What happened? Somewhere along the line, I feel like I've failed in some required twin individuation process. Sure, we have our differences--anyone who knows us knows how we hate being thought of as duplicates. Still, however unintentionally, our lives have basically followed the same trajectory until now. We went to the same college. We joined the same club. We sang in the same chorus. We eventually ended up with the same major. We lived in the same apartment for two years.

Of course, our paths started subtly diverging three years ago, when she went and fell in love and entered a world I know nothing about. I forestalled the inevitable conclusion for as long as I could, mentally willing her not to come back with an engagement ring every time she went out with her boyfriend.

But obviously, things change. They have to. And now I feel like the individuation is being forced on me in the most dramatic means possible: her last name is changing, and I'm moving to Africa. I don't know if this ripping-off-the-Band-aid separation is better than other ways of doing it or worse, and really, it's pointless to wonder, but I can't help myself. I feel foolish and melodramatic for bemoaning my loss when she'll still be just a phone call and eight time zones away, but it's a real loss and I wouldn't be doing it justice if I didn't mourn it, just for a little while.

Jennifer woke up when she heard me crying in bed this morning, and I pathetically asked her to come join me. So she did, and I cried, and then she cried, and we both got tired from crying. And then either she or I said something ridiculous, which made the other one laugh, and then we both kept on saying ridiculous things and dying with laughter. And after a couple of hours we decided we were hungry and went to Chick-Fil-A and got chicken biscuits.

And that's how things usually go with us. I'm just trying to see who's going to help me pick up my pieces when she's across the world from me, and not across the room.

We have seen better days

I need this in my life...

*Breathes into bag*

Must...not....explode....with...joy....

...and naturally, I'll be in Africa when he goes on tour.

perhaps there will be enough interest to justify a Kigali stop??? please??????

Ch-ch-ch-ch-chaaaaaan-ges

It's been awhile. So, faithful readers (be ye any?), I give you a brief update on my life.

1) I am recently back from a glorious week and a half in Ormond Beach, FL, where I devoted most of my time to perfecting my frisbee throw, reading a book a day, and getting browner than anyone who doesn't know me in the summertime would believe (that's the thing about my skin; it's surprisingly versatile). The rest of my time was spent trying to hush the guilt that such a long period of worthlessness inevitably brings. My primary line of defense was that surely I deserved this period of unadulterated chill after the black hole of joy that was, so often, my final collegiate semester. It worked. Some of the time.

2) I am a little over a month away from My Big Move to Rwanda. That means, in short, that I have got to get some serious stuff in gear. My preparation so far has consisted of reading several books about the country. Oh, and I made an Africa mix for my Ipod. Which is crucial, but it won't protect me from yellow fever, so I should probably do something about those shots soon.

*In a related note, National Geographic seems to be forecasting my travel plans. Weeks before I left for China, this showed up in our mail. Now, with Rwanda on this horizon, this month we get one with this on it, with the question "Who Murdered the Mountain Gorillas?" The article was mainly about Rwanda's neighbor, the Dem. Rep. of Congo, but Rwanda is also famous for it's mountain gorillas and was included in the article. Weird, no? They didn't predict my trip to Florida, but I guess they can be forgiven for that.

and, most (de?)pressingly...

3) I am officially less than two weeks away from being the sister of Mrs. Jennifer Locke.

I think this picture says it best.















(For anyone missing the parallel, I'm the one on the left).