Linger

There is a thing about sequels that I've never given time to think about. Or starting over. Or this so-called metamorphosis caterpillars undergo so they can spread their wings and fly to their victory. Or life in general. Come think about it: why the in the heck start over your life in England when there's Poland, Iceland, Greenland, Disneyland, Funland, and other places with -land as a suffix in this world? It was cute, though. Who would think that I, a hopeless idiot, would get a job in an album slash record store with a girl named Ellie Clarkson. That's a story for another day, but this caught me off guard, therefore resulting into a series of unexpected happenings. Andbutso, though my heart was filled with woe, I had to go and pursue my endgame in the Land of Tea.

Which is why my since-the-beginning-of-college friend, Jensen, got furious at me. With Cheetos in her mouth and her red hair disheveled, she yelled at me for two following reasons:

1.) "Damn it, Effy," she said, spitting her already-cold coffee all over my face. I tried not to flinch. "How come you've never told me?" People were coming in and out of the cafe, but Jensen spoke, undeterred. "Your life is in danger, my friend. If you want jolly good show, then go ahead and fly high to England. But if you want to make good use of what you had learned in Berkeley, just stay here in New York, damn it. You can have seven kids and not die here."

I despised her hypothesis on how England was a big cliché, and that the aforementioned place was only meant for field trips, not for life-changing stays, or god forbid, concerts. She insisted that she was a.) Always right and b.) Always accurate. I insisted two completely opposite things.

2.) That's mean, I wanted to say. I wanted to speak, but she put her finger against my cracked lips and shook her head. "Shh, bro. Just shh."

So when Dad accompanied me to the airport, cried a little bit and kissed my cheek for the first time in my more than two decades of existence, I knew everything was going to crumble down and reattach itself back again. I didn't know how life would do it, I just knew that it would. Dad had to watch me leave like in the movies.

This is what happens when you have big dreams and you have them under your thumb - life becomes a piece of shit and the song your best friends used to sing during camp starts messes your head up. Then you remember about trash, that it's Wednesday, that Dad is going to be so pissed off that you didn't get it out before you went overseas, and that he's going to do it himself every Wednesday. You remember that you're 25 and you're finally free from your Dad's house and you're not supposed to cry in the plane because the clouds are in your vicinity like you've always wanted, but you keep thinking about that damn Adele song that your pals used to belt off tune and your Dad and the Thanksgivings you can't attend and then bam, you're crying in public, sneakily catching momentary hiccups. That's what happened to me. I had to do it all. Movie style.

The flight attendant had to ask me if I was alright. This is what happens when they find a girl on a plane, alone, staring aimlessly at the clouds, crying, mumbling gibberish, hiccuping every five seconds or so. "Do you need anything, ma'am?"

I wiped a tear and smiled. "I need a life."

Luckily, the plane didn't crash like I thought it would and I landed safe. The sun was still the sun. The world still itched to move, but the afternoon sky was not the same the moment I stepped out of the plane. The English gust hit my face, turning my not-frizzy hair into a whole lot frizzier, which was probably the greatest way to start my New Beginning.

To say the least, London is very much different than New York, of course. Though life back there had been all about Starbucks, London was more metallic, more secure, more medieval and gothic. I did what I had to do before the jet lag hit me - put my luggage in a cab's trunk, get in the cab, and rode to the hotel. As England's wonders welcomed me with open arms, the distorted images from the taxi made me think. Does the difference really matter? People were still breathing, living, grieving, walking, running just like NYC, just like everywhere. Perhaps, only, in a different and noticeable way, but clearly, the difference doesn't really matter. It never did.