We’ve finally reached the bathrooms and the old lady who had been ahead of Sora is now vacating the one closest to her, ducking her head shyly as she scurries back to her seat. Sora glances at me with a pained expression, clearly bracing herself for the worst, and disappears behind the door.
Finally, the other bathroom door opens and a flustered mom, her toddler in tow, emerges—the toddler looking thrilled, while the mom looks what can only be described as battle-weary. The corner of my mouth lifts as I let them pass. While some day I would love to have kids, this is a good reminder that I’mdefinitelynot there yet.
The cramped bathroom thankfully doesn’t smell as bad as I was expecting it to, and after I’ve managed to empty my bladder and wash my hands, I survey my reflection in the mirror. The harsh overhead lighting certainly isn’t doing me any favors, but for a travel day, I admit that I don’t actually look half bad. My mass of curly, dark brown hair is piled high on my head, with a few loose tendrils curling at my nape and temples. The tousled attempt at a bun is held in place with a pink scrunchie that I stole from Kyla. I generally prefer to wear black and…well, other shades of black, so pink is a little “out there” for me. But it reminds me of her. Of home.
Despite not having any coffee in my system and only having slept a few hours last night, my brown eyes are—surprisingly—not rimmed with red, and my skin is flushed in a way that actually seems intentional, as if I put on a touch of blush. Which I definitely did not. Makeup, in my mind, is not for travel. Who am I going to run into that I know? Other people who are equally exhausted and bedraggled from an international flight?
Once I’ve freshened up, I slip back into my seat just as the flight attendant announces that we’re preparing to land. Which means that, at some point—high over the Atlantic Ocean, and without my even realizing it—my time of birth passed. I guess I expected that I’dfeeldifferent when I passed through the threshold separating “young adult” from “middle-aged” (or would it be “quarter-aged”?), but it’s only now that the realization hits me: I’m officially thirty years old.
I gaze out the window, melancholic. Wistful.
Misty white clouds begin to clear as we descend, revealing the vibrant landscape below. A patchwork of green and brown fields stretches across the horizon, soon giving way to tiny pinpricks of darker hues—houses and buildings, cars and people. Towns soon become cities, and then, just like that, the mechanical whirring of the wheels extending out from the belly of the plane vibrates throughout the cabin.
Sora’s words echo in my mind.
I know, in the deepest part of me, that travel will always be sacred. It will always stoke that aching sense of wonder, fanning the flames into full-blown reverence as I wander a country not my own.
I just wish I could do it on my own terms.
Maybe that will be my dream for my thirties: to finally see the world asIwant to see it. The warmth of this thought soothes my anxious brain. With a deep sigh, I pop in my earbuds and scroll through Spotify until I find my favorite travel playlist:Chloe’s ‘90s Hits.
So I like to live in the past, sue me.
I press play and the languid notes of one of my favorite power ballads fills my ears. I let my eyes flutter closed and the singer’s feminine rage drowns out my swirling thoughts as we approach the runway.
Six weeks.
I just have to get through the next six weeks, and then I can go home and never do this again.
THREE
Chloe’s ‘90s Hits, Now Playing:
DRINKING IN L.A. — BRAN VAN 3000
“How arewe supposed to get all ofthisto the ship?” Sora asks incredulously as she surveys the Jenga-like tower of hard-shell equipment cases stacked next to the baggage carousel, each stuffed full of expensive lenses, battery packs, lighting panels, and other miscellaneous items that I’ll need at some point over the next six weeks.
“We carry it,” I say matter-of-factly, my muscles straining as I heave one of the cases onto a luggage cart with a grunt.
When you’re traveling regularly with film equipment, you get accustomed to the weight of it. You learn to account for its physicalandmental heft—which includes (but is not limited to) keeping track of it, making sure everything is charged and ready to go on a moment’s notice, and, perhaps most importantly,nothanding the hundred-thousand-dollar lens to a rookie camera assistant who has never held anything so expensive in their life (except maybe their diploma).
I learned that last one the hard way.
“Allof it?” she askstimidly, and I snort.
“Yes, all of it.”
Thankfully, Sora seems eager to please. Without another word, she grips the opposite end of a large case and we lift it onto the cart.
Once we’ve loaded up—and after I’ve tracked down my first sip of caffeine in twenty-four hours—the two of us head out of Leonardo da Vinci Rome Fiumicino Airport to find our taxi, then spend a few minutes packing everything into the cargo area of the sleek silver Mercedes-Benz Sprinter van. As I buckle myself in, I imagine I’m actually on my way to a quaint boutique hotel tucked discreetly above a little trattoria near the Vatican. Instead, our driver—who doesn’t speak a lick of English—drives us five minutes north of the airport to a budget chain hotel, where we haul each case out one by one and then carry them upstairs to my room.
Because, of course, the elevator isn’t working.
“Well, that was…” Sora mutters, for once seemingly at a loss for words.
“Fun? The best time you’ve ever had? Exactly what you thought crew life would be?” I snicker playfully.
“Exhausting,” she blurts out. I nod in agreement, even though “exhausted” doesn’t even begin to describe how I feel. Unlike my mostly presentable appearance on the plane, my face is now shiny and oily, my hair is lank and greasy, and while my shirt is dry—a miracle—a faint smell of sweat lingers. It’s a stark contrast to the perfumed lobby we repeatedly trudged through earlier.
