an essay
As the plane lifted up and away, as the jagged crags of the Newark skyline gave way to puffy clouds and blue skies, I wondered what lay ahead. As a freshman in a new school, I was on my way to a foreign country with a group of almost complete strangers. It was an “educational” high school trip to Italy. We were to go on a guided tour of seven iconic Italian cities.
I’d gone because I had an activity scholarship lying around from my grammar school and so I could say I’d been outside of the continental United States. I’d left my parents behind and allowed myself to be herded onto this stuffy flying tin can with nothing to keep me company but a cheesy romantic comedy on this overnight flight. I vainly tried to sleep, knowing that we were landing in Rome at 8 A.M. local time, but failed. Not even a quarter of the way through the 8-hour flight, the TV cut off, reverting to a slideshow of the plane’s GPS location and Italian weather reports. Now, the only sounds are the rhythmic breathing of the hundreds of passengers and the endless drone of the 777’s engines. I felt like I was the only conscious being on the plane, with even the pilots letting the autopilot do its job.
The crushing silence (or as silent as a jet can possibly be) gave me time to think. What was I doing? I mean, I was having enough trouble just meeting people in this new school. Now I’m going to brave another continent with them. The only name I even knew was that of one of the teacher chaperones.
As I sat there wide awake, wondering how many days we’ll be in the country before I wake up in a bathtub full of ice with organs missing, the bundle of blankets next to me stirs.
“You’re still awake?” it asks.
I remember his name as he pulls down the fleece so I can see his face. It’s Joe. The only reason I even know him is because we were the sole freshmen on the trip and we had sort of stuck together to avoid the upperclassmen.
“Yeah, I can’t sleep on planes,” I reply. He looks at me quizzically. “So you’ve just been sitting there?” I sigh and let out a defeated “Yep.” His brow furrows. “Well, we can’t have that.”
That’s how we spent hours talking about school, our towns, sharing stories, as if we were old friends. A few minutes later we could see the sunrise on the horizon through one of the few unshaded windows. As the plane came to life, we began to collect our belongings and prepare for our foray into our New World. Over the din of yawns and folding tray-tables we agreed to room together for the duration of the trip and scheduled night watches to fend off the organ harvesters.
As we ventured into the Roman labyrinth we were assaulted by a myriad of sights and smells. Joe and I stuck together, together marveling at the amazing architecture and joking about some of the sillier pedestrians. In particular there was one tourist who embodied the stereotype. It was a man well into his sixties with prescription glasses thick enough to be bulletproof, a sun hat, a Hawaiian shirt, shorts, and sandals with socks up to his knees snapping away with his disposable Kodak.
By now, my anxiety was gone. Sure, I didn’t know where I was and still didn’t know the majority of the people I was with, but I had a friend and that was all that really mattered at this point.
This all flashes through my mind in an instant. Suddenly I’m standing in complete blackness, leaning against the cold metal body of a Nissan Sentra. A stiff breeze makes me wish I had a sweatshirt on this unusually chilly August night. I look up from the pavement and over at my best friend. It had been more than four years since we’d first met. And now he’s leaving.
We all knew that it was coming. We were all going to have to leave for college eventually, but that didn’t make it any easier when the time came. We stand in the driveway by his car, not really knowing what to say. In less than 12 hours he’ll be watching that same skyline disappear under him, not to return for months.
The light of the screen on his phone pierces the darkness, his mother calling to see where he is. We know it’s time. After a very masculine hug (real men hug,) he clambers into his car. As the battered Sentra sputters out of the driveway, I wonder when I might see him again. During the summer, we’d spent more time with each other than was likely healthy, staying out late nearly every night and sleeping at each other’s houses more often than not. We’d been through more than I care to mention.
With a hesitation and an audible clunk, the car meanders down the road, its dim headlamps struggling to light the way. I now realize that I’m soon going to be in the same situation that I was four years ago. I’m going to be a scared little freshman in a new place full of complete strangers. While I tell myself that Marist is full of plenty of nice people, I can’t help but hope that I’ll run into another Joe.