A New World

by Anne Nies

! The thing about falling in love is youʼre not prepared for it. I was by no means

prepared. Like many things, I had assumed love had nothing to do with me. When I

was a teenager I never thought about things that had nothing to do with me. Love was

an inconvenient and unpredictable emotion, that has no business in the rational world.

So when I saw Tim for the first time, I immediately decided, in very irrational form, that

we needed to be friends. Friends are safe. The world was tilting and folding because

the universe recognized our friendly connection. It wasnʼt me, nothing was really

changing. At least thatʼs what I said, again and again, to my friends, to myself. The

funny thing about a lie is, sometimes even when itʼs a really obvious one, people let

you keep telling it. I think they may have been amused. It was quite clear that I knew

nothing.

! I donʼt remember the first time I saw him, but I remember the first time I spoke to

him. We were standing in front of the elevator, I wasnʼt looking directly at him. Well I

glanced to make sure I had his attention, but was too afraid to stare openly. I observed

my feet, and him out of the corner of my eye. When Iʼm very nervous the world fades

away. I canʼt remember my surroundings, or how the person I was talking to

responded, or even exactly what I said. That happened then, my memory is one of

blank, white, blinding terror. I can build a lot, based on what I know should have been

there. Indra was there, shorter than me, and that helped; also prettier than me, that

didnʼt. I said something about Holland, about having shipped shipments there, at my

last job. It was a jumble of words, making little to no sense, coming out too fast, with

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the emphasis in the wrong places. He was nice and smiled. I thought then that we

could be friends. I didnʼt realize, and itʼs a mercy I didnʼt, that his English was terrible.

He hadnʼt understood me, but he had wanted to talk to me.

! Holland, The Netherlands; had nothing to do with me, until that day. Heʼs tall and

towering over me, dark hair and kind eyes, for the first time in my life I feel tiny. My

ignorance is also towering over me. He explains Holland is not The Netherlands,

Holland is a province of The Netherlands. Iʼve made an idiot of myself. Iʼm still in the

blinding white panic. I imagine he was laughing at me. Perhaps he was, I canʼt be

sure, but if so it was in romance novel amusement, not teasing playground cruelty (he

still does that now, laughs at me in a way that reveals his love for me). I canʼt talk, I

choke and rush onto the elevator, before the doors are completely open, and into the

corner. Heʼs right behind me. By the time the elevator has stopped, and weʼre getting

off, we have plans. I donʼt think either of us meant to go to the first floor lobby.

! We kept running into each other and plans kept happening, day after day, week

after week. When I look back at it now, it seems that how often we happened to

stumble across each other was more than a coincidence. Iʼve brought it up, but he

always gives me a sly smile and mischievous eyes quickly changing the subject. We

never spent more than a few hours apart; class, sleeping, and such irritations. He

listened and traded crazy family stories with me when I found out that my sister had

attacked my mother in a drug induced frenzy and was sent to prison for drug use and

assault. He held me when I cried in the empty chapel after the plane hit the Pentagon,

and before I knew my Uncle, who had happened to be out of his office for a meeting at

that particular moment, was ok. That semester it felt like the world was falling apart,

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although all it really was doing was changing. Through all of it he was there, a

comforting conversation, strong warm hands touching and holding me, a solid shelter in

the maelstrom. At the end of the semester, four months later, we were quite in love. I

assumed it was because when things are bad, there must be that one reason to hold

on, or else you go mad. He was my reason, and I kept from loosing my mind in many

ways because he was there to anchor me. Although, during those months I never

allowed myself to believe that he was more than a temporary support. That kind of

thinking is how you wind up with a broken heart.

! The Netherlands. He was going back. It was Christmas Eve. I was in Ohio with

my family, he was in Miami with his Aunt. For the first time I looked at my home and

truly hated it. The blue and white tiles on the kitchen floor were suddenly ugly and dull; I

had never noticed them before. I looked around and noticed that everything was

rundown. Until that moment I had only seen potential in the old farm house, then I saw

nothing but decay. I had to be with him again, he agreed, I would go to Miami. My

sisters had to be told, so I did it in the front room. The christmas tree glowed in chintzy

glory; multi colored lights, the old ornaments, and stacks of presents in mismatched and

brightly colored paper.

! “Iʼm going to Miami, to be with Tim, for Christmas.”

! They didnʼt understand, their faces turned up to me in disappointment and

sadness, the lights of the tree glittering in their large eyes. They said that Christmas

wouldnʼt be right without me.

! I tired to explain, that he was going home, to the Netherlands, that it was far and

that I wouldnʼt get to see him again, at least not for a very long time.

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! “But itʼs Christmas, weʼre supposed to be together as a family for Christmas. You

wonʼt be here for the presents.”

! It was a futile argument. The decision was already made, nothing they could say

would change it. The time had come, life changes, not every Christmas is spent the

same way.

! Plane tickets on Christmas eve are expensive and difficult to come by, so I rode a

Greyhound bus from Dayton to Miami. It was a long and miserable ride, the bus was

crowded, and I was anxious. What if this was the last time we got to be together, most

likely he would forget about me as soon as he left US soil. I would be nothing more

than an American fling, fun but meaningless. I spent Christmas day in Atlanta, in a bus

terminal, because it had snowed a few inches. Atlanta doesnʼt know how to deal with

snow. It seemed as though I was the only one desperate to be at my final destination.

The other travelers were clearly weary. They seemed hopeless and half dead, moping

about, sleeping on their luggage, talking in small hushed groups. The fluorescent lights

bathed us, until everything was sterile and surreal, I couldnʼt sleep. Disconnected from

the terminal; afraid Iʼd miss my bus, or that it would fill up with passengers before I could

get to it, that I would miss my last chance with him. There were so many people, dark

masses huddled on the floor in chairs, surrounding me. I was alone.

! Once we were back on the road, comfortable in our blue cushioned seats, I fell

asleep. There was a child next to me, a small boy with very dark skin. When I woke up

I was holding him. His mother a seat back with two more children apologized,

concerned that he had disturbed me. For the first time on my trip I felt sad, she was

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alone, I was alone, it was the day after Christmas, and we were on a bus. At least I had

a lover waiting for me.

! That was the beginning. It wasnʼt the first time I had travelled. It was the first

time I travelled because I had a deep instinctual urge pushing me to. If I had sat at

home I would have died. My spirit was eating away at me from the inside, I had to be

with him. Every moment apart was more difficult. It felt as though the life was being

crushed out of me. I couldnʼt think, I couldnʼt breathe, and I tried. I knew it wasnʼt

rational or even reasonable, but the more I tried, the more I failed, and the more

desperate I became. The worst part was when I finally arrived at the Miami terminal. It

was early, just before dawn. The sky was full of steel blue clouds, and it was not nearly

as warm as I had expected, probably low 60ʼs. The station was poorly lit and only a few

bums could be seen . I was filled with the fear that he had forgotten, was still asleep and

would not be showing up for hours.

! Shortly after I walked out of the small run down building I spotted him, and we

drove to his cousins house. He had been sleeping in a room near the garage, and

since it was early everyone was still in bed. We climbed in together still clothed, and we

laid under the covers, him holding me, as warmth flooded into me. I said that I thought

he didnʼt want me, and that maybe I had made a mistake in coming. Then he kissed

me, and my worries lost importance. I stayed with him in Miami until just after New

Years, sleeping in separate rooms, stealing chaste kisses when no-one was looking,

never talking about the future. It wasnʼt like before, when sometimes he held me so

long and so tight I thought heʼd never let go. I assumed this was the end, and although

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a bitter sadness threatened to swallow me, I was determined to bleed every second of

all it held.

! He went back to the Netherlands, and I went back to school. He had to finish his

degree, and his student visa had expired. It was the first January after 9/11, the world

was full of sadness. He wasnʼt getting another visa. Maybe a tourist visa, but not until

after the school year ended, and only if he wanted to. I didnʼt expect him to call, and

was stunned into silence when he did. Then for the first five minutes all I could say was

“I didnʼt think you would call.” What I really meant was I didnʼt think you wanted to

continue our relationship. He told me that his ex had moved out, “after letting her bird

shit all over my books, theyʼre ruined.” He invited me to visit, promising that the ex

would not be around, and that she had decided to be a lesbian. I had spring break on

the way, and a trip to Europe had been on my to do list for some time, so I booked

tickets. I allowed a small flicker of hope, that maybe this was something real; then

quickly squashed it under the pretense of getting to go on a fun trip with someone

whose company I enjoyed unconditionally.

! Making a transcontinental flight, alone, for the first time at 19 should be

intimidating. It wasnʼt. I didnʼt understand what it meant to leave the country. So, I

calmly sat on the plane, next to a guy twice my age, and exactly my size. I was excited

about seeing him, but not very excited about the Netherlands. The guy next to me was

excited about seeing Amsterdam, specifically the coffee houses, not anyone in

particular. He talked a lot, I didnʼt sleep; it was the longest eight hours of my life.

! Watching the flight monitors, a clean line arcing gracefully over the Arctic Circle,

I began to feel nervous. I was going very very far away from everything I knew, for a

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man I hardly knew, and I was just a girl who was trying to become a woman. It was a

scary thought, but the captainʼs voice ringing out over the speakers was deep and jovial.

If he was calm and happy, there was nothing to fear. Although, the guy next to me was

a bit odd to be so excited about a coffee house.

! As we neared Europe, green forms began to appear on the screen in front of me.

They were what I had looked at on maps in school, but suddenly they lost their

familiarity. I realized they had never meant anything to me, I had never paid attention,

and I was going there. The plane was cramped, the guy next to me still talking. Who

talks for eight hours straight? Something about stashing weed in a hotel, the same hotel

he was planning to stay in. Wanted to see if it was still there. Geeze, I thought, what a

looser. He was getting much more excited and I was becoming very worried. What if

Tim wasnʼt there? What if I had to ask this guy next to me for help? What if I was all

alone, in a strange city full of pot heads and prostitutes? I needed to run, or at least to

stretch my legs. I shifted and the seat moved under me, so uncomfortable, grating on

my nerves. In the past seven and a half hours I had memorized the interior of the

plane. I was loosing my mind, I had to get off, I couldnʼt make it the last 30 minutes. I

stopped I couldnʼt panic, they wouldnʼt let me back on to go home. I thought about

Canada, fields of branchless trees and bare dirt under ash skies. I thought about driving

west and the great expanse of the Mojave desert, red and orange hughes undulating

around shimmering puddles of quicksilver on the asphalt. I was an adult, I could do this.

No matter the outcome, it was an adventure. I caught my breath and the plane touched

down.

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! As I moved towards the front of the plane, shifting in a tight anxious line, I

realized that I didnʼt know this man very well. I knew how I felt about him, but now I was

at the place he came from, and I knew nothing about it. That is; I knew they grew tulips,

and I knew they had windmills, but I also realized that was probably not the real

Netherlands. Just like the Statue of Liberty, and Disney is not the real USA. I wondered

what I had gotten myself into.

! All airports are the same, that is they feel the same. They have subtle

differences, so if youʼve travelled a time or two you know if youʼre in CDG or MIA or

LAX. But whatʼs important is that when in an airport, you know youʼre in an airport. Itʼs

safe, and predictable. There are lots of things, like signs, to help you find your way.

This makes it deceiving, because nothing about being in the airport prepares you for

being outside of the airport. You donʼt know the temperature, or the traffic conditions, or

where you are. He was there, in the crowd, he had to be, and so I was quite confident

that I would be fine.

! Heʼs tall, taller than most American men. He always stands out in a crowd. I just

look up and find the head above all the others, and Iʼve found him. That didnʼt work at

the airport, I was in a sea of giants. I was terrified. I had never before been the shortest

person in a room, and I was the shortest person out of hundreds. There were a lot of

people taller than him. He was the same height as the women, and I was reduced to

being a midget. But he found me, before I found him, and he pushed through the crowd

to sweep me up in his arms. He kissed me, and crushed me, stealing all of my air. I

thought he would never let go, and that was exactly what I wanted.

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! We left the airport, and we went to a train station. I had to jog to keep up with his

long legs, but his hand never left me. We never went outside. There was no car. We

were going to ride a train. The train was packed, the station was packed. There were

giants everywhere. I didnʼt understand anything, the conversations around me were

unintelligible, the announcements gibberish, the signs meaningless, the maps

worthless. The world was behind a grey film, a few feet around me were clear, but

everything else felt dull and hazy. He was always close, within arms reach; and

although I was in a foreign land I felt safe.

! Looking around, I didnʼt see a single thing I recognized. Even the trains were

different, yellow and sleek, with funny colored interiors, like deep red, neon green, and

rotten orange. They had high backed fabric seats that faced each other. It felt like

sitting in a box, some were glassed in, like you see in movies. I could hear the

conversations around me perfectly, although everyone was very quiet. But hearing and

understanding are not the same. No-one was speaking english, there were lots of

guttural noises. I kept thinking was going to be spit on. I realized then, the train rocking

softly, listening to murmured conversations, glancing at the back of someoneʼs paper

that I was a foreigner. That this was not my home, that I did not belong. He was holding

me, and that made it easier. But it also made me realize, for the first time that we were

different. That we had grown together, but that there were many parts of us that were

still very far apart.

! At the last station we took a cab to his house. I think he realized by then that I

was too tired to keep walking. It was dark, and the roads were cobble stone. He knew

the way, and the tricks of the road; I didnʼt. It turns out that a lot of things in our

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relationship have been that way. It happens often that only one of us knows the way,

and the other has to lead. Every time, itʼs a test of trust, turns out thatʼs a test weʼre

pretty good at.

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