It was a rush of several days. A panic of pressured revision for an exam, followed by the actual taking of it. It was a bit of a mess; there was more on my mind. Probably the last exam I was ever going to take. I took in the school girl atmosphere, the cold walls and the scratched tables. I wrote until my wrists ached and cramped, had a moment of near tears, swallowed them, and tried my best to do what I could with the little brainpower I had. I'm tired.
Always tired.
But I had a train to catch to the next place. And when it was over, I said my goodbyes, hugged my friends, and began my walk home in the cold sun, to my waiting suitcases.
A scheduled train and a quick yet intense cuddle from my boyfriend at the station. He sat me on the carriage and with a rise of the sea breeze, he was gone.
My train was delayed and I missed my link. But I sat in a dingy coffee shop reading of adventure and waited for the next trip home. I got to my parents house by midnight, repacked my things appropriately and then fell into a messy slumber, waking at 6am to begin the travel to London Heathrow. There was a lot of traffic, and my plane was delayed because of low fog.
I read my book on the plane but tried to save as much as I could. I was reading the 'Hunger Games' trilogy and on the second book, and oh did it ache my heart. Since I started I found myself feeling very close to Katniss, and having not seen the films, my imagination ran wild. Innocent romances that I still remember as a girl consume me. The feeling of loss and hopelessness entwined with her story and my own are my everything for these hours. I treasured each page, rationing them best I could. It's all I had to hold on to, except the wonderfully quaint tales of Karl Pilkington in 'Happy Slapped By A Jellyfish' which I was dragging around with me too for 'lighter' reading.
Luck smiled on me. I found money on the plane. It fell from the tiniest crack in a seat in front of me into my open handbag. Confused, I looked around, asked if people had lost any cash, and after no prevail, held onto it for safe keeping, unsure of what my next move should be. After no comments from anyone, I kept it with hope in my heart of a holiday treat, as I am deep in my overdraft and could not believe such a gift. I tried not to feel guilty. It was no one immediate's; I had asked around. I looked at it as a present from someone greater and held it excitedly.
I landed in Miami, muscles tight and eyes heavy.
The passport control queues were long, two and a half hours passed. I forgot my address for where I was staying and was sternly pushed around. Eyes watering, I dragged my feet to find my bag, almost lost after the wait. More queues later, I get out to find that I had no contact for my grandmother who I believed was getting me, and none for my mother who was already here. I searched around, rang my mother's English phone, and sighed.
Finally my grandmother appeared, flustered and worried, and we realised we had missed the last train back to hers. Florida is not somewhere you walk around aimlessly without direction or transport. We either stay the night, or spend money on an expensive taxi.
I gave my gift money to a safe journey home.
We finally arrived back to my grandmother's flat.
I have always loved it. More of a 'studio' space, it is quite open and not very big. But in this place flows a mish-mash of cultures and eras. Ornamental Asian trinkets mixed with piles of books and magazines. A glass table with metal tree branches for legs. A neogothic mirror and a 70's floor lamp, curving above you like an open clamshell. The bedroom has a large white bed diagonally across, with more oriental jewels on a textured glass and metal table at the feet. Next to the bed a colourful glazed clay fountain, with a victorian crystal chandelier hanging over-head, suspended from the white ceiling. The bathroom is a pale pink, with a brown 70's-esque floral shower curtain.
A number of paintings and pictures aren't hanging, they are placed carefully on the floor, leaning against the walls. Collections of framed black and white photos in collages and a slightly abstract portrait of her from an artist I don't know.
The large glass doors overlook palm trees, and on the balcony sits a lone potted plant on top of a set of metal chairs and a rounded table.
The kitchen is dark wood, and collects mysteries in the cupboards. The mismatched cutlery looks ivory handled.
The skin of a cow centres the room, its neck lying beneath a coffee table.
This is not the space of the casual Floridian. It is the space of a woman who has lived in many places, reads a lot, and seeks the company of unique and quirky items. She is not a rich woman, but instead deals in the currency of beauty.
Her wardrobe ranges from cocktail dresses to pink pineapple-laden flip flops. Rubber sandals, vintage handbags and shift dresses. She is an eccentric like the best of us.
Exhausted from the journey, I soon get into my pyjamas and attempt to go to sleep. My mother who was on the sofa drinking wine at our arrival, falls into conversation with my grandmother. They would be off the next day, so I get to sit by the pool in the morning alone, and enjoy more of my reading, and think of what the next days will hold for me, at the beginning of a long awaited holiday.
AKC x
No comments:
Post a Comment