transit

8pm. Amsterdam. It was at the Amsterdam Schipol airport that I began to feel the first twinge of panic. I stood in line at the gate, backpack and giant duffel bag in tow, listening to the chatter of people around me.

None were in English.

I searched around for any semblance of home, or even just one of Asia. I needed to see just one person, one single Asian, to keep the panic down and reassure myself that I could do this. That home was not so far away.

But there were none.

That was when it hit me that I was really no longer in the Philippines.

This was the end of my life as I knew it.

*****

11pm. Marseille. The Marseille airport was deserted except for the passengers from our flight. I trailed over to the information desk to get some brochures about the city.

None were in English.

*****

"Parlez-vous anglais?" I ask the taxi driver as Xian, my Malaysian classmate, and I queue at the taxi stand.

"Non."

I whip out a sheet of paper and show him the address of my dorm. He points to the next taxi, indicating that the next taxi would take us to Aix-en-Provence.

I turn to the second taxi driver. "Parlez-vous anglais?"

"A little."

Thank God.

*****

12am. Aix-en-Provence. Angel #1. The taxi pulls over onto to a gated driveway. "This is Residence de Cuques. The gates are locked. The taxi can only go up to here."

"This is it?" I peer through the gates, but only see a dimly lit street and a deserted building. There is no sign of a dorm. "But where is Batiment 2?"

The taxi driver reads my arrival instructions sympathetically. "You want I go with you to find the building?"

I heave a sigh of relief. "Yes, please."

He steps out of the taxi, carrying my luggage for me. We walk down the street, looking at each building until we finally find Pavillon 2 at the end of the street. We ring the doorbell. The night watchman appears from behind the glass doors and opens it for us.

"Sheila?" he asks.

"Yes."

"Welcome."

*****

Angel #2. The night watchman gives me my room number and keys in broken English. "Your room is through those stairs. Wait for me. I will help you bring your things up."

I heave another sigh of relief.

*****

12:30am. Residence de Cuques. I am breathing heavily by the time we reach the fourth floor. A group of men and women are clustered in one doorway, chattering in French.

My room is at the end of the hall. I turn the key and the door swings open. I am greeted by a tiny room with torn wallpaper and the sour smell of dried urine. The floors are dusty and caked with mud.

"Welcome!" the night watchman repeats enthusiastically as he sets my luggage on the floor. "This is your room, I'll leave you alone now. Good night!"

And finally I sink down on the gray mattress and let the homesickness come.