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Lessons from Better People A Thesis Submitted in Partial Fulfillment of theRequirements of the Renée Crown University Honors Program atSyracuse University Sarah Crawford Candidate for Bachelor of Arts Degreeand Renée Crown University HonorsSpring 2020 Honors Thesis in Writing & Rhetoric Studies Thesis Advisor: _______________________ Patrick W. Berry and Associate Professor of Writing and RhetoricThesis Reader: _______________________Krista Kennedy and Associate Professor of Writing and Rhetoric Honors Director: _______________________ Dr. Danielle Smith, Director AbstractThe following project is a two-part personal narrative about my time spent abroad during the summer of 2019. The first piece of the project is a creative account of my travels to Europe and experiences as an American intern in Brussels. The experiences I describe are creatively retold to create a story with fictionalized characters meant to represent a conglomerate of the people I met. The writing is meant to blur the lines of academic research by incorporating candid and honest recounts of what it means to be a 21-year-old student abroad, alone, and seeking success without really knowing what it looked like in the first place.The second part of my narrative is focused on my research and interviews with Colin Dorrance and Josephine Donaldson—two Lockerbie residents who helped me understand the impact that the bombing of Pan Am 103 had on the Scottish town when a terrorist attack caused the plane to explode overhead on December 21st, 1988. As a Syracuse University Remembrance Scholar for the 2019-2020 academic school year, the written account of my journey to Lockerbie not only seeks to define humanity in times of tragedy, but also explores my personal understanding of the terrorist attack based on the people I met and the experiences I had while I was there. These are real people with real stories, retold from memory in the hopes that this dichotomy of research and creativity will provide readers with something to relate to in the context of the human experience.Executive Summary/Description of Research MethodsWhen I embarked on this rather ambitious journey over a year ago, I had a much different end product in mind than the one I eventually created. I had set out, after my junior year at Syracuse University, with the goal of writing my first book—a personal dream that I’ve possessed since I was old enough to hold a pencil. I was awarded grant money to travel to different countries in Europe with the hopes of finding people from various age groups to interview about their experiences growing up in countries that had undergone monumental historical changes in the past 100 years. The idea was that I would take these interviews and write a nonfiction account of their lives in order to explore the parts of the human experience that our history books had failed to cover.When I returned home in August, I had no book. I had no semblance of the original idea I had so foolheartedly set out to complete. By these terms I was a failure—a poster child, epitome, shining star example of the word. But here’s where that’s wrong.I came back a different person. Albeit less confident in my capstone, but more hopeful in a world that could hold the people I’d met in the adventures of my suspected failure. I knew more about what it meant to be a human in the face of great tragedy. I learned what it meant to sacrifice your own happiness for those of others. I discovered how to give others a chance to prove themselves when it seemed like I wanted to assume the worst in them. And, most importantly, I learned what it meant to be human through every range of emotion that we get to experience. The following is the journey I had, through my perspective, over the course of a four-month journey in Europe. It explores friendship, loss, love, and the self through my own memories, as well as what I remember of my interactions with others.This is a creative nonfiction piece. Everything you read is based upon true events, but some names have been adjusted for privacy reasons, and dialogue has been modified because it is drawn from my memory. My writing isn’t intended to be taken as completely literal, but represents my inner consciousness as a juxtaposition to the reader’s experience of my time abroad. These were my thoughts as I remember them through my time at my internship in Brussels, to my time in Lockerbie, Scotland.I do not seek to offend or mislead anyone about the contents of this work. At most, it should be viewed as a personal recording of real events that I wrote to help myself, and others, understand life better through travel, people, and the stories I heard.The first half of this book is written with characters who were inspired by real people I met while in Belgium and accurately describes my daily life living in the city and working as the only American in a primarily French office. While conversations are retold as I remember them, the events that they are a part of have been slightly fictionalized to accompany an idealized version of the real events. This section of my writing was intended to serve as a reflective interpretation of self-discovery.The second half of the book explores a research-focused perspective as I travel to the Scottish town of Lockerbie, Scotland. The people I describe in this section have not had their names changed and I seek to accurately retell their stories as accurately and academically as I can. However, it is important to note that this section is still described through my point-of-view and interpretation of my time in Lockerbie. Therefore, dialogue is represented through my own memory of conversations and should not be perceived as exact quotes. The subject matter described in this section is quite serious and it is my hope that I have been able to honor the victims of Pan Am 103 and respect the lives of the people affected by the tragedy. This book is not finished. I don’t think it will be for a long time. But academic deadlines don’t need to make a project any less worthwhile. The people I’ve met and the stories I’ve come to hold dear deserve more than the year I was able to devote to this project. While I will be submitting what I have accomplished thus far, it is my oath to myself to not set aside this work until I deem that it has been completed to the degree of excellence that it needs to be ready for broader readership.Table of ContentsChapter 1: The Arrivals GatePage 8Chapter 2: Pre-DeparturePage 13Chapter 3: DeparturesPage 19Chapter 4: Brussels is CallingPage 29Chapter 5: Place St. CatherinePage 34Chapter 6: Welcome to Corporate LifePage 40Chapter 7: Working Through ItPage 51Chapter 8: Lockerbie, ScotlandPage 63Chapter 9: Arrivals, Once MorePage 116AcknowledgementsThank you to my Professors, Patrick W. Berry and Krista Kennedy, for putting up with my many panic emails and for spending hours reading my work to provide me with edits and advice. Thank you to the friends and family who encouraged me to keep writing. And thank you to my mom for supporting me through every stage of life, I hope to become half the woman you are someday. Finally, I would like to dedicate this to Richard Paul Monetti, who made the most of every day and whose writings will continue to inspire others for generations to come.Chapter 1: The Arrivals GatePeople watching has existed as an art form since the creation of the wheel, the invention of fire, and the first stick drawings on cave walls. There’s something innately consuming about the way humans interact with one another that it’s easy to make it an object of observational curiosity. You don’t even need to be socially skilled in order to people-watch—Neanderthals were probably judging the Hell out of one another before languages were developed. Or even just look at babies. Every time I’m in public I’m uncomfortably aware of some wide-eyed dopey baby face obsessively marking my every move with a drooly-giggle. But if you’re really searching for true, uninhibited people watching, you have to go to the arrivals area at the airport. Which is exactly why it’s one of my favorite places in the world. At the arrivals area you can watch people returning to their families from months spent apart, or perhaps from short weekend trips that felt like they had lasted years. You can watch a man dressed sharper than his usual wardrobe allows, waiting with flowers for a spouse that he is eager to embrace again. There are children running and jumping with excitement, naive to the impact time has on emotions, just like the innocence of a puppy who is waiting for his owner to return from work. It’s chaotic, it’s beautiful, it’s humanity at its more emotionally positive rawness. If you ever want to restore your sense of love and hope in people—that’s the place to do it. In a place where emotions are allowed to just…exist. That’s what the sign directing people to the gates should say, “Airport Arrivals: crying, screams of joy, and ridiculous displays of affection welcome here.” But what makes this particular location, often the least aesthetic, architecturally forgotten, part of the airport so judgeless when every other aspect of air travel feels like a free-for-all in beating the mental crap out of one another? Maybe it’s because we’re all so obsessed with our own personal lives that it makes us less aware of other people’s actions around us, or maybe it’s something less cynical. Maybe there’s a heightened sense of empathy that is unknowingly injected into our bloodstream as we breathe the air that is increasingly polluted by the excited, short breaths of those who are waiting for their people to return. Maybe that infection is what has us smile as the woman next to us, as she squeals at intolerable pitches when her lover comes into sight, rather than roll our eyes and scoff in annoyance. When you’re at the airport arrivals you sympathize with that woman, but you also sympathize with that child screaming nonsensical words as they wrestle with the object permanence of their parents face, or the group of students waving hand-made signs for their roommate coming back from a semester abroad. You sympathize because you have had those raw emotions, felt them in their entirety, at your own pivotal moments in life. Seeing these people experience it for themselves harbors a human connection that is unspoken, but felt within acceptance of the actions around you. Because when you see your person exit those doors—scanning the sea of forgetful faces that have now become your unintentional emotional sympathizers—your own heart seizes in anticipation for a reunion that will have made the goodbye suddenly feel worth it. And yeah, you might cry, or scream, or go leaping into your persons arms, but that gamble in emotional reaction is a small risk to take for the sweet reward that is found at the closure of an absence. Besides, nobody there is going to judge you anyway. I witnessed reunions a lot that summer, just by people watching at airport arrivals. I took 18 plane rides over the course of 4 months, which meant 18 different arrivals gates across 7 different countries. And every time I walked through the exit, into the staunchly white open space of the airport arrivals area, I felt the same heart-leaping eagerness of those long-awaited resolutions, but knew that there was nobody waiting at the other side of those doors for me. And in the middle of one of the happiest places in the world, I felt more like the cold, forgotten decor of the last destination in the airport than I did anything else.That was, until finally, in mid-August, when I arrived back in the United States after my study abroad in Europe had ended. Four months of waiting for this moment, four months of waiting to feel the joy of reunion and the comforting presence of family as I approached my final set of “exit here” doors. I should have been thrilled, I should have been so eager that I was shoulder-checking slow walkers out of my way just to be the first to burst into the waiting masses and sprint as fast as I could into the arms of my mother. I should have been…but I wasn’t. In fact, I was walking so slowly that people began to shoulder-check me out of their way.And when I finally did pass through those doors, making eye contact with my to-be-expected overly enthusiastic, wild-haired mother flagging me down from the center of the crowd, my heart lurched forward with excitement, only to be immediately dragged back inside by the grips of ruined pride. I had departed my 19th set of arrivals doors to the sight I had been looking forward to since the moment I entered my first arrivals area in Brussels. And as my mother wrapped me in a hug, I nearly broke down at the sinking feeling that I didn’t deserve to be home yet and that I had returned on false pretenses. I had begun with a dream, and a mission, only to return as a fraud. Did anything I set out to accomplish this summer really, truly get done? Or had I gone through the basics of a research project without the heart needed to make it into something worthwhile? Could I turn the mismatched collection of stories, interviews, and lessons I had come across into something anyone could care about? Perhaps it was the jetlag, or maybe I was just unable to admit to myself that I was secretly a very dramatic person, but all of these questions were enough to send my head spinning with self-doubt. And here’s the thing about self-doubt, it’s like smoke in the kitchen. When the food starts burning, it collects itself in bunches and coats the air with the stench of failure. And even when the oven’s off, the food is rescued, and the situation is rectified, there is still smoke that creeps through the house and settles into your lungs. It alerts people of even the most valiant efforts to rescue the remnants of unburnt food. And just like self-doubt, it lingers as a constant reminder, even when the work is done, that you were so close to failing. With no rough-draft written and no clear direction for my so-called book, I was suffocating in the smoky creation of self-doubt. “I’m so glad you’re home,” my mom cooed, squeezing me tighter with every word and shaking me back and forth. “I’m glad to be home,” I replied against the wishes of my honest heart. She released me from our hug in an unknowing act of grace as I struggled to get air into my lungs. With a quick, not out of character, gasp she suddenly reached into her purse and brandished a folded-up piece of paper.“I almost forgot. Look what came in the mail for you yesterday,” she said, excitedly unfurling what turned out to be a Syracuse University promotional mail card. “Isn’t it just perfect?” On the bright orange, glossy paper were the white-typed words “You become an alumni in 9 months” to which my mom had added the word “Sarah” at the top, y’know for extra, personal emphasis on the fact that my ass was about to be kicked into adulthood. I had nearly vomited right onto the floor at the sight of it. Only 9 more months to completely rework your entire capstone, Sarah, while still producing the book you promised everyone you would set off to Europe to write. Only 9 more months until you’ll be in cardiac arrest at 22 from self-induced stress over a project you don’t have the discipline to complete. Great welcome home sign, Mom. On the bright side, at least amongst all the chaos and dread of being back in the States there was one emotion that I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt I was truly feeling. That of being completely and utterly screwed. Chapter 2: Pre-DepartureThe early afternoon sun shone through the unwashed windows of my bedroom window in Syracuse as I ripped off the last of the string lights from the hooks I had carelessly hung a few months prior. Standing atop my rickety desk chair, I wrapped them neatly around my arm and mindlessly felt my eyes wander out to the street below. Peering into the distance, I felt my heart immediately sink into my stomach as I watched the front door of a house one block down open to reveal a gangly figure making his way outside. I wasn’t expecting him to come so soon, I hadn’t finished packing yet and I had hoped to make as speedy an exit from Syracuse as possible. But, alas, I should have figured as much. He and I had always had bad timing. It had pretty much been the center breaking point of our entire relationship.Sure enough, it was Mitchell who stepped out and quickly made his way down his porch steps and up the street towards me. With a deep sigh for what was to come, I jumped off the chair and busied myself with tidying my messy room to the best of my ability before he arrived. My clothes were strewn about, books were piled up hastily in the corner, and random pieces of furniture were pushed about in ways that guaranteed a shin-bruise for anyone who dared traverse the span of the room. I threw the lights, mostly still unwrapped, in a plastic bin and grabbed the letter off of my desk before heading down the steps to unlock the front door. On the way, I passed one roommate’s closed bedroom door, which was barely containing the sound of rap music blasting from within. He probably had another new girl over even though it was the end of the semester. I had never seen one man go on so many dates in one weekend before I moved into this house. He was truly a modern Casanova, a collector of unread text messages and forgotten intimacies. I could never understand the appeal, he was a good friend, but his romantic escapades reminded me more of a villain in one of my favorite Jane Austen novels.Regardless, I had survived an entire semester of living with him and I wouldn’t have to worry about it next year when I was living with my best friends in our new house 5 blocks away. Ding-DongSpeaking of things I would not have to worry about next year, it was time to resolve my last unfinished business of this semester. I raced down the last few steps and opened up the front door. Mitchell stood there smiling, dressed in his worn-out film festival t-shirt and khaki shorts, and awkwardly rocking back and forth on his feet. In the two years we had known each other, he looked so completely similar to the way he did when we first met that I nearly burst out laughing at the irony of what was about to unfold between us. He had not changed, but all of my feelings towards him had.“Hey, how’s it going?” He asked, brushing his way past me and into the house in an entitled manner that instantly vexed me.“Just trying to finish packing,” I said through gritted teeth. “Can we go to my room? You’ll just have to be caref-” Before I had even finished, he had bounded up the stairs, obviously not caring to hear what I had to say. Maybe this would be easier than I thought. I followed after him into my room, suddenly feeling like a guest in my own house. I hated how easily he could make me feel inferior to him.“So, this is goodbye then, you’re going back home for the summer?” Mitchell asked hopping on to my bare mattress and leaning back on his elbows. He already knew the answer to that question, but it was typical of him to pretend like the details of my life were too insignificant to remember. “Yeah, I leave for Belgium next week,” I said. I could have pointed out to him that we had already had this exact discussion less than a week ago, but I was so tired from packing that what little fight I had in me needed to be kept on retainer.“Cool, cool. I got some crazy production work I’m looking forward to. I’ve just been spending so much time editing this sound project for this guy who’s about to graduate, but it’s not even important. I just can’t wait to work on films that actually matter,” he bragged as he uninvitedly launched into his monotonous career details. “That sounds great, you’ll probably be very busy this summer,” I said, turning away from him. My fingers fidgeted under the impending weight of the verbal landslide that was about to escape from my mouth and I busied myself by putting desk items into a nearby box.“Oh yeah, I’m gonna be booked up. I’m definitely not going to text you that much when I get to work again. I’m just going to be so busy on this feature film set and it’s all a pretty big deal,” he declared. I’m not sure if it was his purposeful inclusion of the words “feature film,” or the request to suspend communication before I could, but suddenly I found my strength to enter the confrontation arena. “Okay, well I’m going to be pretty busy with my career this summer, too. I got a scholarship to write my book abroad, remember? It’ll be hard to text overseas,” I shot back. Boxing ring gloves on, you’re suited up for the ring Crawford, give it your all. Ding, ding.“Yeah, but you’re just doing an office internship. I’m not going to be able to control my hours when I’m working on a feature film set. Maybe we can video chat in July, or whenever my schedule clears up enough.” Ladies and gentlemen the opponent has entered the ring. His calm demeanor made me feel like he was completely unaware of the final blow I was about to throw. This would be a short match.“No, I don’t think I want to do that,” I blurted, turning around to finally face him. Mitchell sat up, startled by my sharp response. Ah, there’s a beautiful swing landed, folks, Mitchell is visibly shaken up in the ring. “What? Why not?” He asked. Slight confusion had dripped into his voice, but I couldn’t help but note the absent traces of actual concern. This was why I had to end this. It was time to send in the knock-out punch and finish the relationship once and for all. And here comes Crawford winding up with the final blow, will she do it!?“Look Mitch,” I started, leaning back on to my desk for stability. “I don’t want to talk to you at all this summer. I’m going to Europe for four months to work on my dream book and then I come back right in time for senior year. And then what? We graduate and go our separate ways. I know that we’ve been broken up for a while, but whatever we had this past semester has made moving-on from you nearly impossible.” I paused for a moment to look-up at him and I was surprised to see him sitting still and attentive. He kept quiet, so I continued on with the speech I had prepared in my head.“I’ve given this a lot of thought and I think it’s time I finally did what’s best for me. I don’t want to talk to you anymore, I don’t want to text you, and I don’t even want you in my life as a friend,” I said. Upon the release of my last request I felt a piece of confidence reclaim my heart in a way I hadn’t known since he had re-entered my life in January. And she’s done it, he is down for the count! Excitement in the arena tonight as Crawford has accomplished the impossible!“Okay,” he said firmly, void of any discernible emotion.“Okay.” I said a little annoyed, but now assured in my decision. “So, does all of that make sense? Don’t you want to know why?” “No, if that’s how you feel, that’s how you feel. I’m not going to try to change it.” “Okay,” I replied again, indignantly. “Well, if you change your mind, I wrote it out in a letter so that you never have to suffer the same lack of closure I had with you last fall.” I reached into my pocket and pulled out the letter for him. He stood up from the bed and put it into his own pocket without as much as a curious glance at the contents. If I had any more reason to question his true feelings, this confirmed that his adoration for me was as vibrant as a puddle of mud. He turned to the door, leaving, I thought, without a final word, or parting glance before he turned around and slightly chuckled underneath his breath. “Do you know what your problem is?” he sighed. I stared blankly back at him, suddenly affronted by the unexpected question. “You plan too much. You never let life just come to you as it is, you’re always trying to stay one step ahead of it.”“No, I don’t,” I muttered, my newly found confidence suddenly wounded by the troublesome claim.“Yes,” he said, pulling back out the letter and waving it in my face. “You do. And if you don’t learn to just accept the unexpectedness of tomorrow, you’re never going to enjoy anything.” And with that final proclamation he turned out the door, down the steps, and back out into the street.I stood anchored to the same spot, shocked and angry. How did he manage to still win this break-up/friendship-parting when I so clearly had come in with the upper hand? I knew that I had done the right thing, and that I would be better-off without his ego clouding my visions of future success, but somehow I still felt like it was me who had ended up being K.O.’d in the ring. But it was of no consequence, surely. I was just wallowing in the sting of an unexpected accusation. He was staying in Syracuse and I was jetting off to Europe for a dream summer of writing my book and interning for a communications agency. I had worked so hard to make this happen, and now I was finally free of the emotional baggage he had made me lug around campus for the past five months. No overweight luggage fees for me. I was starting off fresh, full of the ambition and spirit that made every sleepless night feel like it had been worth-it. I looked down at my to-do list and crossed “Say Goodbye To Mitch” off with a single stroke of a pen. Good. Only a few more boxes to pack and then it was time to drive home. So, what if I liked to plan out my life? Mitchell didn’t know what he was talking about. Without a plan I never would have been able to earn the scholarships that helped me afford the adventure I was about to embark on. Plus, I knew how to go with the flow when the time called for it. And if he turned out to be right, wasn’t Europe where people go to fix these things about themselves, anyways? Chapter 3: DeparturesUnlike the arrivals area at the airport, the departures area of the JFK airport was a pit hole of sadness, mostly because it didn’t really exist. TSA had taken over any space that was originally reserved for warm goodbyes and clogged it with cold metal detectors and invasive body scanners instead. In the hordes of travelers rushing to make it to their flights on time, most people were swept into a security check-point line before they even had a chance to say, “I’ll call you when I land” one last time. It was hard to watch the family members reach out for a final hug only to be met with the stomach of some burly security guy with a power complex who demanded the intended party clear the way for “safety reasons.” Thank you, TSA, for keeping people from properly saying goodbye to one another just to enhance the senseless discomfort of security theater. At least the criers in line were better than the ones who believed shoving you in the back would make the entire 150-person line dump their stuff into the plastic gray bins faster. I’d say it was worse than a child kicking your seat on the airplane, but with my luck I’d probably get to experience that too on my approaching 7-hour flight. I was dressed in about 6 layers too many with the disassociated excuse that I would be cold on the flight, but with the reality that my bag was over the weight limit and now I had to deal with the consequences of my overpacking. The couple behind me wouldn’t stop jabbering about which gate their plane had gotten switched to and every time somebody moved 10 feet ahead of us, the husband would nudge into my backpack as if I were a horse needing kicked into a gallop. By the fifth bump I turned around and looked him dead in the eye, disarming him with one of my infamous glares, and he awkwardly shuffled backwards in surrender. I’m sure it helped that my blood-shot eyes had helped me reach peak capacity, “bump me again, and I’ll go full crazy bitch right here, right now” vibes. I hadn’t slept the entire night before, but not because I was nervous about going abroad for the entire summer. It was a purposeful decision derived from the very unfortunate fact that I did not do well with small spaces. Airplane seats were a kryptonite to my legs and sabotaged me with unbearable calf-cramps in record time. The anxiety induced from only being able to move about 3 inches for the duration of the flight would hit pretty fast. Luckily, the Lord giveth as much as He taketh away and I was blessed with the talent of sleeping just about anywhere on just about anything. Thank you to my grandpa for that special gene. One time my dad accidentally left him in a Staples after he fell asleep standing at the check-out line. I was a descendant of a true legend. My dad had taken me to the airport earlier that day, but our goodbye had been much different than the ones I had since witnessed while standing in the purgatory of a never-ending security line. A product of a messy divorce, my father and I hadn’t exactly been wishy-washy emotional pals since my freshman year of high school. Although, in saying that, I can’t remember a time we ever were emotionally trusting of one another.He’d dropped me off with the efficiency and promptness that was his signature style and we’d parted ways with an awkward hug and a promise to call at some point in the next few months. My goodbye with my mom, to say the least, had been a little bit more tear-filled on her side. I was about to board a direct flight to Brussels, Belgium, where I would be interning for the public relations agency, Zander Communications. But I was also setting off to research and write my senior capstone project. I had worked my ass off the entire spring semester of my junior year of college for this moment to actually happen. I’d forgone hanging out with friends, taking care of my basic needs, and, perhaps the greatest sacrifice, not partying...well, at least not more than a handful of times. I was not from a well-off family, like a lot of my peers were at our private college, so I quickly figured out my best friends were scholarships and I would perpetually be in a long-term toxic relationship with FAFSA. Getting accepted to study abroad was one thing, but before I could actually celebrate the accomplishment, I had to figure out a way to pay for the program. That reality hit before any of the satisfaction of landing my dream internship abroad did.As the security line moved forward, I braced myself for the bump from the overly eager couple behind me, but thankfully it didn’t come. The summer heat had yet to press down into the unbreathable metals of the city, but somehow the sweaty mass of anxious travelers inside the airport made it feel like we were deep in the middle of August and not May. August. That month seemed so impossibly far away. I shifted under the sudden weight of my backpack and felt the sweat build-up quicker underneath my layers of clothing. The heat rushing up my neck felt like an anxious monster clawing at my sleep-deprived nerves. I hadn’t thought I was nervous to be gone for so long, but suddenly I was painfully aware of how incredibly alone I was about to be for the next four months. The surge of the line shook me out of my thoughts, and I took a steady breath before pushing forward. I was getting too deep into my head and it wasn’t going to do me any good to get homesick before I had even left the country. No, from here on out I could only think about the tasks ahead. I didn’t spend all of February locked in my room and living off of Kraft Mac and Cheese just to give in to an anxiety attack in the JFK security line. If what I needed right now was to freak out, I could at least wait and see if TSA pulled my backpack for extra inspection. Okay, Sarah. What do we do when we’re overwhelmed? Remind ourselves of the facts of the situation. The first fact was that I was going to board that plane whether I liked it or not. My ticket was way too expensive to turn away from and a lot less expensive than the surgical costs of getting my ass handed to me if my family found out I hadn’t gone. The second fact was that I was going to be in Belgium in less than 12 hours. And third, my summer was going to result in my arriving back at this airport in four months with a completed senior research project. These were the facts; these were my safeguards from entering into a true state of panic, and these were the things I recited to myself as I finally approached the front of security. I couldn’t help but also think about the way my family had reacted when they first found out about my internship abroad. It was the day after Thanksgiving and I had just successfully finished my online interview, where my future boss, Caroline, had offered me the position as their summer American intern at Zander Communications. Filled with a sense of pride and driven by an adrenaline-fueled need for validation, I had raced upstairs with my laptop in hand to find my family members gathered around the dining room table.“Hey, everyone,” I had said, “I got the internship! I’m going to Brussels next summer!”Their eyes didn’t light up in the same way as mine. That was what I immediately noticed. Instead they awkwardly exchanged concerned glances around the room, being careful to avoid my face. The stillness soon seized my energy and muffled it with every passing second until I was in a motionless state. “Sarah, how do you expect to afford that?” a voice said, inviting others to chime-in with similar concerns. “You can’t leave your mother for an entire summer!” “You should be focused on finding a part-time job and actually making money.” “What would you want to go all the way to Brussels for? That’s too dangerous!”Well, surprise, your doubt really quelled me into complacency didn’t it? The lack of support in that moment had fueled me into wanting the summer more than I had when I originally received the internship offer. Que the sequence of my semester feverishly applying to scholarships. But it had worked. And with a grant from the honors college figuratively tucked away into my blank writer’s notebooks, I had all of the tools I needed to prove the people who doubted me wrong.I felt my face flush at the forgotten anger from their reactions only to be snapped out of it by the sound of a TSA agent blasting out another round of instructions to travelers who wouldn’t listen anyway. “Please have your electronics out. Let’s keep it moving people,” she bellowed, staring down anybody that dared to look at her. I quickly removed my shoes, dumped my laptop, phone, and camera out of my backpack and into the gray bin before placing the rest of my belongings on the x-ray machine’s conveyor belt. Going through security took about a third of the time standing in line did, as per usual, and once I had finally repacked my backpack, I looked at the airport and felt an overwhelming sense of truly being on my own. Well, whatever would happen in the next few months I knew that it would be better than another summer stuck in my suburban Hell-scape disguised as Pennsylvanian farm fields. I made my way to my gate and plopped down on an empty seat, throwing my bag off to my left side and heaving a sigh of relief. I was already exhausted, and the real traveling had yet to begin.The waiting area was unoccupied, except for me and one middle-aged man eating a gas station sandwich in the corner. Within this little nook of chairs and electronic charging stations, the airport almost seemed peaceful. It was as if the noise of the other travelers running to their gates was being blocked by an invisible barrier, leaving me alone to observe. As the muffled voices of gate closing notices were played on the speakers overhead, I got lost in thought staring out the windows that adorned every outer wall. What architect decided that floor to ceiling windows should be the norm for every airport departure waiting area? It certainly made the space feel less claustrophobic. My phone vibrated in my back shorts pocket and I shifted to pull it out. Just another social media notification about somebody from high school getting engaged. God, I was ready for a break from all of this. I was barely even a senior in college, how were people choosing someone they wouldn’t mind waking up next to every day for the rest of their lives? I couldn’t even choose a favorite color. I turned my phone to silent and checked the time on my watch. Two more hours until take-off, plenty of time to digress over the lamentations of young love. I was not usually a cynic when it came to romance, but the sting of Mitchell was still fresh in my heart and I wasn’t in the mood to start singing Frank Sinatra and throwing flowers everywhere again. Upon thinking of that satisfactory self-assessment, I proceeded to pull out my newest Jane Austen marriage plot novel and flipped to the first page. Back in high school, my English teacher had loaned me classic literary novels that she said would make me a better writer. I blew through C.S. Lewis and J.D. Salinger, even had a huge Ernest Hemingway phase. But the writer I found myself drawn to the most was Jane Austen, when I read Pride and Prejudice for the first time. Her belief in societal good, as well as her colorful, feminine storytelling enraptured my spirit into believing that a country ball could be the best of all life’s simple pleasures. When I started college, I made a promise to myself that I would read all of her works before I graduated. Now, with that final year quickly approaching, I only had Mansfield Park left to finish. I read the opening line: About thirty years ago Miss Maria Ward, of Huntingdon, with only seven thousand pounds, had the good luck to captivate Sir Thomas Bertram, of Mansfield Park, in the county of Northampton, and to be thereby raised to the rank of a baronet's lady, with all the comforts and consequences of a handsome house and large income. (3)No sooner had my eyes skimmed the last word, did I become suddenly overcome by the presence of another person rapidly approaching to my right-hand side. As a secret introvert, I had mastered the art of appearing busy, while being altogether totally aware of every social interaction that I desperately wished wasn’t happening around me. Whoever you are, please just don’t sit near me. But today was not my lucky day because about two seconds later that figure had slammed down in the seat next to me.“Yo, what’s up. Are you a Syracuse student?” A drawly, deep voice asked. I had no choice, but to pull myself out of the 18th-century protection of an Austenite romance and respond to the chivalrous face of what I would come to learn was a modern-day American fraternity brother. Not exactly Mr. Darcy. “Yeah I am,” I replied taking in his darky wavy hair, unshaven face and, sure enough, stereotypical sweatshirt adorned with Greek letters. “Oh okay, dope. I noticed your shirt and figured that you were probably a student,” he said, spreading his legs out and sinking further into the chair. I glanced down and, sure enough, my dumbass had layered on a bright orange Syracuse sweatshirt over-top of my other layers when trying to avoid my over-packing disaster from earlier. Stupid, of course someone from Syracuse was going to immediately spot me. “Are you a part of the Brussels Public Advocacy Program then?” I asked, immediately peeling off the sweatshirt to avoid any other students who might be lurking nearby. I was too exhausted to handle small talk with my peers right now. He couldn’t have been older than 21, like me, by the looks of it. But his slack jaw and dark eyes that darted around the airport as if he was expecting an assassin to come-up and pistol-whip him had me assuming that our paths would never normally cross back on campus. “Yeah, my dad wouldn’t pay for my spring break trip unless I got an internship this summer. But I totally beat the system because now he’s paying for me to go hit up bars in the beer capital of the world,” he said laughing in the glory of his own success. Oh, God. “I’m Carter.”“Sarah,” I responded, reaching out to shake his extended hand. Well, at least the guy had some manners. “Where’s your internship at, then?”“Some independent political analysis firm I think,” Carter said. I watched carefully as he began to settle himself next to me further. Great, I guess I’m gonna have to find the energy to hold a conversation after all. He threw his backpack up on the chair to the right of him and took out a vape pen from the front pocket, which he then proceeded to take a hit off of. Now how the Hell did he get that past security? Or, more importantly, how bad is the security in this airport? “Oh nice, I’m working for a communications agency that focuses on political analysis, too.” I waved away the small smoke cloud that had accosted my face as I was speaking and quickly scanned the area to make sure airport security wasn’t around. This idiot was going to get us both kicked off of the trip before we had even left the country. We chatted on, making small talk about our similar student experiences at college for a half-hour, or however long it was before the rest of the waiting area began to fill-up with passengers. Carter was a fraternity boy, but at least he was good at conversation even if he did mention his unrestricted access to his dad’s credit card every chance he could. “Alright, yo I’m gonna go throw this in the garbage because I heard that they can explode in your hand if you’re in the air. I’ll catch you when we land and maybe we can split a taxi to the hotel?” Carter asked, standing up and stretching so widely that he almost struck a passerby in the face. He was so awkwardly lanky that he wasn’t even aware of his height. “Yeah, I’ll find you at baggage claim,” I lied. There was absolutely no way in Hell that I was paying a ridiculously overpriced taxi to take me to our apartment building, but I didn’t feel like telling him that…or that we weren’t going to be living in a five-star hotel for the next few months. I would be traveling the only way I knew how—cheaply and frustratingly. Find the Metro, curse loudly to yourself when you can’t make any sense of the different subway lines, and pray to God that you make it to your destination before your phone runs out of battery. Within an hour the flight attendants for our plane had arrived and the announcements I had heard all afternoon started, but this time it was finally about my flight. I gathered up my things, presented my boarding pass, and made my way onto the plane. Behind me, much farther back, I could hear Carter chatting up the flight attendant as she scanned his ticket. It was a shame that the first person I should meet on this adventure would have to be the stereotypical fraternity brother whose idea of a cram session was polishing off a 30-rack by himself the night before winter break. I wasn’t looking for love, but it would’ve made my flight a lot more entertaining if I could have romanticized meeting someone who was an English major with an affinity for poetry. Incredibly, the idea of daydreaming about Carter teaching me how to do a keg-stand in the basement of his frat house did not satisfy my romantic imagination.Upon finding my seat, one next to the window, thankfully, I nestled into the scratchy fabric as comfortably as I could and pulled Mansfield Park back out of my bag. God, my legs were already cramping. Seven hours until the summer was truly to begin. Perhaps it was the lustfulness of a journey preparing to start, or my whimsical imagination clogging the logic in my mind, but a thought suddenly consumed me with overwhelming sincerity that this would be the best summer of my life.“Oh sick, 32E? We’re sitting next to each other! Best coincidence ever,” Carter’s voice loudly exclaimed, slamming me back into the stuffy interior of the cabin. A few rows up the piercing wails of a toddler had already begun. When did that reading light above my head start flickering so much? Was that hot air coming out of the vents and not cold air? Carter threw his backpack onto the floor next to me, slamming it into my ankles and I winced in pain, unnoticed by him of course. He had already grabbed the in-flight cocktail menu and collapsed into his seat with anticipation. “Time to booze up, you feel me?” Alright, so maybe it wouldn’t be the best summer of my life, but I’d settle for an unforgettable one. Chapter 4: Brussels is CallingBy the time we had taken off, my 24-hour avoidance of sleep had finally taken over my restless mind and sent me into a deeply needed slumber. Within the rocking of a cramped airplane seat, proven to be even smaller by my need to scrunch as close to the window as possible to avoid accidentally brushing legs with Carter, I fell victim to the anxieties of my subconscious in dream form. I opened my eyes to a crowded train station, where I stood holding nothing but a blank ticket. Where was my luggage? Had I forgotten it, or did I not need it? A voiceless narrator told me that I was waiting for a train to arrive, but when that would be was not explained. I began to push my way through the mass of faceless people, dressed in drab colors and topcoats. I had an urgency to my movement, as if I were being chased. But by what I had yet to figure out. The faster I moved, the faster my heart would beat, and I felt my legs falter underneath my desperation. The anonymous figures crowding my way were undisturbed by my movements as they continued their arbitrary tasks with motivations I had no care to discover. Wind blowing from an indiscernible location pushed me back and ripped the ticket from my hand. No, no, no. I needed that. For what purpose I had no idea, but whatever I was to accomplish could not be done without that ticket in my possession. That I knew for sure. I grabbed desperately for it, but its direction forced me to retrace my steps back into the unknown danger behind me. My heart rate spiked as I scrambled for it. My fingers grasped at its edges, but I was unable to recover it. Around me, the people of the station began to grow taller, or perhaps I grew smaller, and the surrounding light grew darker with the shades of their gray and brown jackets. I was losing sight of the ticket and suddenly I could barely move within the forest of bodies. The air was thickening into an unbreathable mass, and my lungs felt heavy and ready to burst within my chest as the world turned to black.Suddenly, I felt something wrap around my waist and pull me upwards. I was too weak to resist and became limp underneath the force of this indescribable momentum. As the light began to break into my vision again, I realized that the thing gripping me was a massive hand, whose fingers were as long as the length of my body. In the confusion and haze of my panic-infused vision, I could barely make out the mirage that appeared in front of me. There was no longer a train station, but instead thousands of the same blank tickets were cascading from the featureless sky. Still motivated to recover my lost ticket, I reached out, but they evaded my grasp as if I were the viscosity of water. “You’re not getting out Crawford,” his voice whispered, through an unmoving mouth. But his features were unmistakable. “Mitchell?” I choked out, struggling underneath his grasp. “Let me go”“You can leave anytime you want, but it won’t set you free,” he laughed, his grip instantly loosening around me. His palm tilted, and I grasped desperately onto nothing at the realization that he was trying to drop me. My legs hurriedly peddled backwards, but it was no use as gravity took me from his hands and dragged me downwards back into the darkness. The blank tickets followed me down, and the only thing that was left to be seen was his face snickering at me, watching without remorse as I went deeper and deeper back into nothingness.I awoke with a jolt; my heart beat just as quickly in my real body as it had in my fabricated one. As my eyes readjusted to the darkness around me, I almost wondered if I had really woken at all until I heard a voice just as nightmarish as the one in my dream.“Oh, sweet you’re awake. They’re coming back for a second round of drinks, you wanna split a bottle of wine? You know they say that one drink in the air is like three drinks on the ground,” Carter rambled, as if we had been conversing just a second before. “No, no, I’m good,” I replied. Ouch, how long had we been on this flight for? My left leg was tingly and numb, and the rest of my body felt like it had undergone a medical student’s first cadaver lesson. “What time is it?”“Like 11, we still got two hours to go. Hey—yeah, can I get a beer over here? Oh, I don’t care like Sam Addams?” I grimaced at Carter’s lack of manners and took the opportunity afforded by his awkward schmoozing with the young flight attendant to recall the nightmare I had stirred from. Why had I been dreaming about Mitchell? I didn’t have feelings for him anymore, or at least I told myself that I didn’t. This was so typical of him to invade my dreams when I was trying to get as physically far away from him as possible. And what was the whole blank ticket thing about? If my subconscious was trying to tell me that I was fearful of not escaping the monotony of my life at home, obviously it hadn’t digested the fact that I was currently traveling away from it at 500 miles per hour. Regardless of my concerns in the undeciphered dream, the rest of the flight was spent making (and tactfully avoiding) small talk with Carter and escaping into the pages of my book. Carter Smeltzer came from a well-off family, his father was a financial lawyer for a construction company in New York, and from the sound of it was quite successful. Every month, Mr. Smeltzer deposited $500 dollars into Carter’s bank account, which still wasn’t enough to quench his son’s binge-drinking and party boy lifestyle. I had hardly any knowledge of fraternity reputations on campus, but I was surprised that he talked very little of female-conquests, other than those his friends had made. Badges of honor created from meaningless one nightstands, quickly enhanced by sexist comments, were what I had come to expect when talking to boys like Carter. But he seemed more preoccupied by the source of his next drink than of raising his body count. Everything about him almost felt contradictory. His affluence in life aligned him with a snobbish privilege that should have prevented him from caring about the lives of anyone deemed below him in monetary status. Yet he was unable to prevent himself from talking to anyone around us, especially me, about anything that entered his mind. He may have lacked pleasing cordialities, but he was still good at making conversation. Even his holy trinity preference for alcohol, partying, and cigarettes did not prevent him from listening to my interests, which were arguably more introverted and academically focused. If there was one thing to understand about Carter, it was that he hated school, so his ability to feign interest in my summer goals was admirable at the very least. His physical appearance, which was conventionally attractive, reminded me of a Martha’s Vineyard trust-fund baby who got dumped in the wilderness for a week with only a knife to defend himself with. He wore a gold chain around his neck, but intentionally tucked it under his shirt, which I took as a sign that he wore it for his own personal reasons, rather than to show-off the influence of his family’s riches. A scar under his mouth was explained in a long-winded story as the product of a fight he had gotten into outside of his fraternity house about 6 months prior, which ended in a beer bottle being smashed against his face. By the time the plane landed, I disembarked with the feeling of not having quite gained a new friend, but at having gained an odd type of acquaintanceship for the next few months.We ended up deciding to part ways after we received our checked luggage—me with my one blue suitcase, and him with two large designer bags which I prayed had not somehow successfully smuggled weed across the border as airport dogs passed by us. He left to hail a taxi to the apartment, and I headed for the Brussels Metro system. Chapter 5: Place St. CatherineHaving to drag my 40-pound luggage, which was now haphazardly re-stuffed with the extra clothing I had layered on before the flight, around the cramped Metro station turned out to be more of a three-hour expletive-filled adventure than Scarface. Except, instead of committing murder for an illustrious drug trading empire, I was fighting off the morning commuters while simultaneously pleading to them in broken French for directions to the right train. As it turned out, “Brussels Hospitality” did not exist at nine in the morning. I was met with frigid stares and one “no, sorry” after another, to the point where I nearly threw my luggage onto the Metro tracks and screamed “FUCK” at the top of my lungs just to get someone to finally stop and look at me. Eventually, I saw an armed military official pass by. I went awkwardly running after him, my luggage swinging in every direction and sweat pouring down my face, until he stopped and I finally found help in purchasing a ticket to Place Sainte-Catherine—which, apparently, was not the name of the apartment complex, but a popular square in the city center. I gathered my belongings back up—suitcase in my left hand and backpack slung across my right shoulder—and found the long sought after Metro to take to my final destination.Brussels was warmer than I had expected, and my Syracuse sweatshirt instantly became damp from the heat of the other passengers. I would have to get used to this, as I would need to take the Metro to my internship every day of the week starting tomorrow. As I wiped the sweat from my forehead, I glanced around at the other people around me—my first real look at the people whose city I was seeking to be a part of.There was an older man seated a few feet away from me, who was dozing while tightly clutching a reusable bag full of groceries. His eyes were hidden underneath furry, dark eyebrows, with a pleasantly, upturned mouth that peaked out from an even furrier mustache. Next to him, near the door, was a group of young teenagers, making the loudest noise in our compartment through a rapid exchange of French words, which I imagined was excited chatter about their expectations for the day’s adventure to come. I couldn’t help but smile at their musings, as one of the eldest looking boys playfully shoved the shoulder of what could have been his younger brother. It was a tease that was returned with the outcry of his name and a lunge that startled the sleeping man holding his groceries. The old man’s eyes shot open from beneath his brows as he loudly exclaimed, “Hmphrah!” and the fruit haphazardly sitting at the top of his bag exploded from its place as his body lurched upwards in surprise. I covered my laughter with my only free hand as oranges and apples made their Hail Mary escape across the ground of the Metro car and the previously assumed gentle old man guffawed at the bewildered teens who desperately chased after the runaway produce.I looked around to see if anyone else had observed what had transpired. It was as if I were on a subway in New York City—the other passengers were either so completely unaware or unamused that I was left alone to giggle at the aftermath of the harmless folly. In Jane Austen’s time, it may have been a truth universally acknowledged that a man with a good fortune must be in want of a wife, but I would argue that it was a truth more universally acknowledged that no matter what country you were in, all teenagers behaved the same. Fifteen minutes later, I departed the Metro with pleasant notions about the future entertainment my commutes might afford me and climbed the stairs to Place Sainte-Catherine. It was breathtaking—or maybe that was just because it had taken the last of my remaining energy to drag my luggage to the top of the steps. The area was already full of people, eating brunch at the outdoor cafes that crowded the cobblestoned sidewalks. The square itself was really more of a rectangle, decorated on both sides with large reflecting pools. My eye was immediately drawn to the long side of a church, whose stained-glass windows provided a pretty backdrop to the left edge of the open area. Stepping out of the Metro felt like stepping back in time, with my field of vision flooded with gothic architecture and brightly painted Baroque buildings. The magic was only interrupted by the sounds of the city’s modern inhabitants, car horns blaring in the distance and staticky music from a park interrupting the tranquility of the scene before me. Ahead of me, on the right, was a sign that read “Citadines,” which was familiar enough to make me believe that this was the apartment complex I would be staying at. I drug my luggage the last few feet to my new home, my arm only leaving my shoulder socket a few times as the wheels bounced up and down across the uneven cobblestones. I walked through the sliding doors of the entrance and approached the front desk. Behind it stood an unsmiling clerk, who kept his head down, completely unaware of my presence as he typed hurriedly away on his keyboard. He was singing a melody to himself, and I looked around awkwardly, half-wondering if I should let him finish before saying anything. I exhaled and placed my hands on the counter and set my face into a friendly smile, but he still refused to part from the concert he was performing to his computer screen.“Ah-hem, hello,” I finally said, clearing my throat slightly. He jumped back startled and glared at me almost like he was offended that I had interrupted his work. “H-hi, sorry I’m here to check-in?” “Yes, of course Madam,” he said, recovering his hospitality within a single breath. His accent was incredibly thick and mumbled. I had to physically lean-in to understand him. Sitting crookedly on the lapel of his suit was a nametag that read “Colville” in neat, block typeface. Alright, Colville The Music Man, nice manners. “You are with the Syracuse student group?”“Yup, that’s right!” I forced another friendly smile on my face, determined to make him my first ally on this adventure, but his scowled demeanor remained absolutely unaffected by my efforts. Well, shit. “Okay, the other members of your party are already here, they’re waiting in the back lobby for your teacher to arrive,” he mumbled quickly, passing over my room key to me in the process. “You can store the luggage in the side room until your room is ready this afternoon.” And with that he promptly turned back to his previous task, the sounds of his typing and humming left to accommodate me to the side room. Sure enough, there was a room filled with luggage stacked on Ikea brand metal shelves. After placing my possessions inside the spare closet, which more aptly functioned as a non-secure treasure trove for thieves, I walked down the side passage to the back lobby. I could hear the distinct noise of rowdy laughter and yelling, which could only belong to a group of Americans, as I approached. Low and behold, the first face I was met with upon entering the modernly decorated room was Carter’s. Somehow, he had already come into possession of a Belgian beer and was happily chugging it down at one in the afternoon on a Monday. The unknown faces of several of my peers turned to face me as they suddenly became aware of my presence.“Hey, I’m Sarah,” I said quickly, eager to get the awkwardness of first-day introductions over and done. I was met with a chorus of expected greetings and cordialities, and I found a seat amongst the circle of my new acquaintances on a velvet couch against the far wall. A friendly looking blonde girl had been the only person sitting there and it felt like the best option available. Mostly because it was the farthest away from Carter.“I’m Darcy,” she said, extending her slim, ring-clad fingers for a handshake. Her blue eyes were a contrasting jolt of color compared to her hair, and I became absorbed in her kind, small smile which bore all the warmth of friendship and none of the juvenile skepticism most college students have when someone new joins a group—a good indication that she was probably many years older than me. “Nice to meet you,” I grinned, hoping to return a similar sense of genuineness, and eagerly shook her hand. “Are you a graduate student?”“Yeah, I am,” she said, confirming my suspicions that she was much more mature than the rest of us. “I’m actually in my second year of grad school.”“Wow, that’s awesome,” I replied. Ugh. I hated how socially awkward and formulaic I could be around new people. I prayed she couldn’t pick up on my robotic, conditioned responses because they made me sound disinterested—almost like Carter. And God, I did not want to be the Carter in this nice grad student’s life. “Why did you join the Brussels program?”“My friend, Francesco, he’s a grad student, too, told me about it,” she shared, turning around and gesturing towards a young, dark-haired guy who was in deep conversation with another student at the opposite side of the room. “I did a few study abroad programs when I was an undergrad, so I decided it’d be a great opportunity to travel again and get some work experience out of it. Hey Francesco, come here a second.” At the sound of his name, his head snapped around and he made his way over to where we sat. Upon first impression, he seemed to have a naturally friendly demeanor, but there was a sly smirk that naturally came to rest on his face which enticed me to know more about him. He was handsome, with olive skin and dark features. “Hey, how are you?” Francesco said with respectful formality as he extended a hand towards me. Good, at least there’s one gentleman on this trip. “Nice to meet you, Francesco.” I felt my imaginary social score increase as we exchanged pleasantries and settled into a conversation about the individual decisions we had each made in order to end up all together in this hotel lobby. Darcy and Francesco had known each other for a little less than a year, but after our 10-minute meet-and-greet with each other, I had a feeling that it had only taken a few months for Francesco to fall madly in love with her. It wasn’t hard to tell how much Francesco craved her attention. His eyes eagerly searched her face to memorize every furrowed brow, upturned lip, and flush of pink to her cheeks when she laughed. He clung to her words, eager for her approval upon every opinion that he contributed and, besides his initial greeting, seemed wholly uninterested in my presence, but not in a way that you could fault him in character for. There was no malintent or impoliteness behind his actions; he was just unwittingly reserved to her in a way that only young love could elicit. Such would be my American selection of friends this summer, I supposed. At the very least, my first day of work was tomorrow, which promised even more awkward introductions. Maybe I’d find a cute coworker who would teach me French, and we’d fall in love and go to Paris one weekend. Or maybe there would at least be an office dog that I could eat my lunches with if I didn’t make any friends. Truly the options were limitless. The best part of not knowing about the day ahead was concocting the possible future in your imagination. But sometimes that just ended up tricking you into living a life you’d never experience. Chapter 6: Welcome to Corporate LifeMy alarm rang at 7 a.m., a time I hadn’t been awake to see since high school. I groaned under the doubt and exhaustion of the day that had yet to begin. There were too many questions and unknown factors. I knew I should be excited for the opportunities that awaited, but the weight of pressure and potential failure kept me weighed down in the small twin-sized bed. This would be the first full day in Brussels and the first day where I would have to venture into my capstone research. Why was I suddenly so aware of my potential to fail? My mind felt like it was hungover from a drunken anxiety-binge. Maybe it was just because I had a hard time dealing with new situations. But, would it really be so bad if I just stayed in bed and slept? Surely nothing could happen in the real world if I just slept and made my own fantasies about what life should be.No, I promised myself I would be better over here. I would not let anxiety and self-doubt clog my mind like I did when I was home. Those two emotions had not boarded the plane with me, and I refused to let their memory linger now. There was no reason to believe I couldn’t do this. Besides, it was the first day of work, the only thing I had to do was show up.I pulled myself from the bed with a resilience unrivaled by even the world’s strongest weightlifter and stumbled the few feet into the bathroom. The apartment had been much smaller than anything I was expecting. I knew Europeans tended to live in conservative amounts of space, but the full kitchen and living room space that had been promised in the online brochure was really just a mini fridge, electric stove top, and desk all crammed into the left corner of the bedroom. It would be tiny living for the next three months. I turned on the cold water and splashed my face in an effort to wake-up. My reflection in the mirror, a vacant face enhanced by frizzy hair and red eyes, made me look more like the rotting corpse in a horror movie than it did the beacon of success I had wanted to be on my first day at work. Thank you, jet lag. I quickly brushed my hair and threw on the best-looking professional outfit I had brought with me, a rust colored pencil skirt and black blazer. By the time I had grabbed my keys and bag, it was already 7:45 and I had 15 minutes to get to work.I hopped back on the Metro with the true confidence and expertise of a local after my extensive, hardened training of having rode it a total amount of one time. Like the day before, the train car was full of commuters dressed in business attire on their way to work, but without my luggage and travel clothing, I couldn’t help but feel like I truly blended in. Amongst all these people, listening to music or reading newspapers, I didn’t think any of them would be able to tell how truly foreign I was in this new environment. Would they look at me and assume that I too was a seasoned member of the city? That I was perhaps a multilingual, like most of them, and had grown up in a nearby country? Maybe they thought I looked Irish and would have an accent? Would they be able to tell I was American at all? I realized that I couldn’t even determine who was from whereas I tried to study the outward appearance of the people around me. Well, except for the younger man in the corner drinking a cup of tea, an austere critic who appeared so disgusted by the rest of the people around him I almost wondered if he had been held at gunpoint and forced to take the Metro this morning. That guy was definitely British. I got off the Metro 10 minutes later, the Arts-Loi station was only three stops away from where I had gotten on at Saint Catherine’s. Unlike the area where I was living, the walk out of the Metro station didn’t reveal the old-world charm of a European city. Instead, I felt like I had almost been transferred back to any major metropolitan city in America. I was greeted with the cold, metal indifference of skyscrapers and office buildings that were replicated in different sizes all the way down the length of the block. Instead of the loving odes of street music, there were jackhammers tearing apart concrete which quickly sent dust into my eyes and temporarily blinded me. I quickly made my way up the street to find one of the generic looking office buildings that housed Zander Communications.This was not what I had expected interning in a European city would look like. But what did I expect when going to work overseas? It wasn’t like the communications company was going to be set up on the top floor of a 16th century church. Although, Quasimodo could have stood to benefit from a good public relations team on his side. Upon finding the correct building, I made my way to the 6th floor and into the office doors of Zander Communications. The first thing to greet me was an aggressively bright orange wall paint that covered two thirds of the interior and the second was a receptionist. She had blunt, choppy bangs that covered her eyebrows and a thin-lipped smile.“Hello, can I help you?” she asked in a French accent.“Hi, I’m the new intern starting today!” I explained, approaching the desk cautiously, fearing that perhaps nobody had been informed I was coming at all. “Oh!” She gasped out surprising both of us in the process. She leapt out of the chair, various papers flying up around her in the process, and came running around her desk to shake my hand. “It is so great to meet you, we have been looking forward to having you. I’m Estelle, I just started working here a few weeks ago.” She spoke very fast and her bracelets clattered with every movement like they were the percussion to her rhythmic intonation. It was as if her words were chasing each other in order to be the first to make it out of her mouth and I smiled at her enthusiasm. Estelle quickly busied herself in accommodating the needs I hadn’t even thought of possessing by pushing a cup of warm coffee in my hand, as well as a biscuit, and settling me down in the nearest chair as she set off down the hallway to find my boss. Estelle reminded me a lot of my mom with her energy. She had so much to focus her attention on and, if I could assume, those attentions always landed on everyone, but herself, first. I took a small sip of my coffee and used my few moments of solitude to get a bearing on the office. The orange walls were apparently a company theme, because accented pillows and chairs in the same color decorated the rest of the space I was in. On the walls were various accolades and awards bearing the Zander name, no doubt to impress clients when they visited the office. Besides the color scheme, the other oddity I couldn’t tear my eyes away from was the comic rocket ship decor that had stuck itself into various spaces in the room. There was a black and white checkered model of a rocket propped next to a row of cabinets, a rocket themed rug underneath the collective of orange chairs, and a rocket ship blasting its way through space hung on the far side of the room next to a flat screen television. I had seen less unusual decor choices at my local Ikea store. It was like sitting inside of an astronaut’s 70s-themed drug den. I could hear her bracelets making their way back down the hallway and Estelle reappeared with another lady right behind her. I quickly stood up, nearly spilling my coffee on myself by doing so. This woman was much more petite than Estelle, with soft brown hair that was neatly pinned up with a hair clip and small features that twitched in the direction of any movement. I recognized her instantly from our video interview last November. It was Caroline.“Hi Sarah,” she addressed in a French accent that was a little more understandable than Estelle’s. “It’s good to finally meet you in person. Come, let me show you around the office.” And suddenly I was whisked down the same hallway they had just come from and Estelle waved goodbye to me as if I were a soldier sailing off to war. The orange hallway led to a small kitchen which led to a small living room which led to a line of glass offices and finally deposited us in the biggest room I had yet to see in the office. The space was fully open, with clusters of four desks spaced out into seven different areas. All along the back two walls were floor to ceiling windows, which looked out over the park across the street and accounted for a majority of the light filling the room. Every person we passed was either busy clicking away at their computers or chatting on the phone, completely too absorbed in their own work to care about the presence of a new face. I was more than okay with that, the sense of anonymity gave me the ability to adjust to my new surroundings without the barrage of pleasantries, or judgmental stares.We arrived in the back-right corner of the room, where I was greeted by two empty desks and one that was occupied by a girl who could only have been a few years older than me. She was the first person in the office to look up and smile as we approached.“This is Guinevere, she’ll be sitting across from you during your time with us. If you have any questions, or need help with anything, just ask her. I’m going to go get you a company laptop so you can start your training material.” With that Caroline turned promptly away and sped off at a very fast past back down the hallway. I’d heard it said that French people were known to be rather…to the point. “You can just call me Gwen. Don’t mind her, she’s been really busy with some extra projects lately so she’s a bit stressed,” Gwen chirped in a cheerful British accent. I hadn’t been expecting that, I had figured everyone I’d be working with in Belgium would be French. I smiled in thanks to her and sat down at the bare desk in front of me. “You’re Sarah, right? It’s great having another American intern in the office again, Jack will love asking you questions about your politics.”“Who’s Jack?” “He sits at that desk right there,” she said pointing to the desk across from mine. “He’s traveling for a client right now, but he’s supposed to be back tomorrow.”“I look forward to meeting him,” I grinned.“He’s a very nice guy,” Gwen assured me. There was a pitch in her voice that made me think she intended to say more, but we were interrupted by the return of Caroline who was cradling a massive black laptop and charger in her tiny arms. “Here you go then,” she said, plopping it down on my desk. “Gwen will be able to get you started up there, but I’m sure you’re well-versed with computers. There’s a training program that will load up. Just complete it before the end of the day and I’ll check back on you after lunch.” And away Caroline scurried, with the speed of a mouse rushing to and from its hole in the wall.As promised, Gwen assisted me with the basic setup of the company laptop and within a little less than ten minutes I was left to my own devices in figuring out the unfamiliar aspects of the bulky machine. We’d discovered that one of the cords I needed to connect to my desktop monitor had broken, and there was no way in Hell either of us were going to bother Caroline for a different one, so she moved me over to Jack’s desk to work there instead.The morning passed by with little social interaction other than this, with only my curious thoughts about the people around me as a source of entertainment while I trudged through the dry training program. Would I ever steal? No. Do I embezzle funds? No. Would I ever consider destroying company property? Well, I might bash my skull through this monitor if these questions don’t end soon.When it came time for lunch, to my dismay, every single person ran off in different directions and I sat at my desk with the twitchy panic of a child who just realized they had lost their mother in a supermarket. Where do I go? What should I do? Gwen had left five minutes earlier, apologizing because she had a lunch previously scheduled with a client. She was kind enough to leave me with a verbal list of good lunch spots near the office, but in my ensuing panic of having to eat alone on my first day, my auditory listening had shut down and I barely even remembered hearing her say goodbye. Why was I acting like such an incapable adult? If I could travel across the world alone, surely, I could leave the office to go eat lunch alone. With this reassuring thought, I worked up the courage to shakily stand from the desk and head to an unknown destination. Maybe it would be good to aimlessly wander around outside for a little bit.“Oy, you headed for lunch?” A deep voice called out in perfect, Estuary English. I spun around to a nearly empty office, wondering if maybe God himself had taken pity on me and had descended from the Heavens with a British accent to take me to tea. “Well don’t look so confused, I’m just asking a question.” A young guy suddenly rolled into view on an office chair a few desk clusters down, appearing from behind a fake fern that had masked the entrance to his secret hideaway. I hadn’t noticed him when I came in that morning. He appeared to only be a few years older than I was, sporting a slightly unshaven face and messy hair that looked like it had been styled with gel in about 10 seconds. “Yeah, sorry I didn’t see you there,” I called back. “Cool, we’ll go with you, you shouldn’t have to eat alone on your first day,” he declared, standing up and grabbing a tan jacket. Another young man, cleaner in appearance, but roughly the same age, appeared from behind him upon this proclamation. Well, this was certainly a welcome turn of events. It wasn’t as good as tea with British God, but it was certainly better than having to eat alone. We made our introductions on the way out of the office and I learned that my saviors were Ronald and Erno, Ronald having been the first one to call out to me. They were each in their mid 20s and had started as interns at the office around the same time back in February. Because they had been the only two interns at the office, prior to my arrival, they had quickly become close friends. Ronald was talkative, and the dominant personality between the two of them, and explained his pride in his Estonian lineage to me. Despite being born in the Baltic country, he had been raised and educated in England, which is how he had developed the British accent. Erno was much quieter, and waited for Ronald’s lead on conversations, content in listening without the need to jump in unless required to do so. He was from Finland and anyone with eyes would probably be able to guess it. His stark white hair, pale skin, and bright blue eyes made him the poster child of his country. They took me two blocks away from the office to a food truck that was crowded by other office workers on lunch break. This little business plaza corner and greasy food stand would become a regular destination for our trio as the summer progressed, and one that I would come to look back on fondly as our “Burger Thursday” lunch tradition. But today it was still just a burger truck, on a Monday, and I stood unattached to the side of it as I struggled to read the French menu in my hands.“It always surprises me that Americans only learn one language,” Ronald quipped at me in a haughty tone that I took as a slight offense.“And what makes you think that I don’t know French?” I challenged, even though I was betting with a losing hand. “Well, for one thing, your menu is upside down.” My cheeks flushed with hot embarrassment as he took the menu out of my hand and chuckled to himself. “I’ll help you out, get the Belganese special. It’s Erno and I’s favorite.” Erno gave a small, supportive nod in agreement as he took out a cigarette to light.“Okay, you’re obviously the expert here, I don’t want to be the novice that doesn’t take your advice. Just know that this will hurt your food reputation in my mind if the burger doesn’t absolutely exceed my expectations.”“Oh, I have no doubt that it will, you just have to trust me,” he laughed. “Here, take this stamp card. The American intern before you left it behind as a sort of traditions thing. Nine more stamps and your burger is free.” He handed me a folded up white card with pictures of little burgers on them, one of which had already been punched out with a star shaped symbol. I took it from him and looked down at the unexpected gesture with a feeling of acceptance that calmed me down more than anything else had done since I had left my house in America. “She was really great, you have a lot to live up to,” Ronald teased. There was something in the way that he spoke to me, as opposed to Erno, that made me feel like I was engaged in a constant challenge of wit, but I liked it. I liked that he had chosen me as his worthy intellectual opponent. “Looks like we’ll both have to exceed each other’s expectations then,” I fired back. His small smirk in response and Erno’s slight chuckle only increased my feelings of acceptance. These were my type of people; I was going to be okay here.The burger recommendation did end up defying my expectations, not that I would let Ronald know that, and the rest of the workday finished rather quickly even with the monotonous task of training programs to keep me company in the afternoon. I was starting to understand what agency life would entail. As I watched from Jack’s desk, which had a nearly perfect view of all of the desk clusters, people made small chit chat about client work, or talked about the weekend. There was always at least one phone that was ringing in the background and the harsh afternoon light sparked an unsettling energy around the space. Besides the array of accents and languages, it didn’t feel that different from any American office.“Who are you?” An accusatory voice questioned. I nearly fell out of my chair at the shock of the commanding sound. My eyes flew up in fear, wondering if maybe I had somehow ended up at the wrong Zander Communications.“Oh Jack, relax,” Gwen said with a light sigh. “That’s the new intern, Sarah. She’s only sitting at your desk because her desktop monitoring isn’t working.” Towering above me was the same grumpy, young man I’d seen on the Metro that morning. Hey, I was right. He was British. Jack’s expression remained unaffected by this information and I realized that he was waiting for me to vacate his desk. I quickly scrambled to collect my few belongings and apologized on my quick walk-of-shame back to my vacant desk. “Don’t say sorry,” he asserted. “All Americans do is ask for forgiveness. It’s fine, I hope you’ve been enjoying your first day.” I stared back incredulously at the way his tone switched from criticism to friendliness in a matter of seconds. How the Hell do you expect me to be feeling about my first day now, asshole? Suddenly, Gwen’s prior explanation of Jack made sense to me. Yeah, that’s a warning I would have benefited from. She smiled apologetically from across the cluster, as if she was at fault for Jack’s behavior. I responded with a small grin to reprieve her of the guilt and reassure her I wasn’t as jarred as I appeared.By the end of the day, I felt no more knowledgeable on European workstyles, or politics, but I did have a sense of security in knowing what life would be like at the office which finally set my anxiety at ease. I said goodbye to Gwen, Ronald, and Erno and headed for the Metro with the type of self-confidence that the lead character of an early 2000s teen movie would have after she scammed her way into the popular group at school.Chapter 7: Working Through ItMy first weeks of Brussels seemed to crawl by, impeded by the uncomfortableness of change and a nagging voice in my head that made me doubt my choice to leave all of my friends in the last summer of my youth. There were few times when our sleep schedules had actually aligned, and I had gotten the chance to talk to those who were still in Syracuse. I felt like a passive observer of someone else’s summer adventures on the empty suburban streets of an American neighborhood; firecrackers set-off on pavements, cans of beer shot gunned, and alcohol sprayed freely in cascades of sweet rain, like the backdrop to the country music song blasting from the front porch speaker. I could laugh and try to overhear the various conversations coming through the phone speaker, but I would never say goodbye without hollowness flooding my veins with the desire to run back home to the people who knew me best. I had never expected to be this lonely. By all logic, I shouldn’t have. I was surrounded by people. I had classmates, I had coworkers, I had…I had Colville. Hah. If there was one person who seemed to regress every day that passed into grumpiness, it was him. In the fourth week of summer, all of Europe became engulfed in a record-breaking heatwave. It was the kind of unrelenting heat where climate change activists reignited their call for regulations on corporations and where climate change deniers just went and bought more oscillating fans from those same corporations. Our office, and much of the city, did not have air conditioning, and it quickly became equally insufferable to be indoors as it was to be outdoors. Going back to the apartments did little to offer reprisal from the humidity. The best management could offer was one 6-inch desk fan per room. The front desk didn’t fare too well either. Colville was forced to endure blasts of heat every time the front doors opened, which were only weakly fought off by a box fan management made him store underneath the desk. Chilly toes, sweat soaked face. I think he took it as a personal attack every time someone came—or left.If there was anything worse than the heat at my office, or in the cramped apartment, it was the Metro. I would sweat as soon as the doors closed and tried to channel cool thoughts through closed eyes and loud music in my headphones until I got to Arts-Loi. Then it was a speed walk to the office to enjoy even more sweating and quieter music. There was only one fan for our desk cluster, but Jack had decided pretty early into the first 90-degree day that the fan would be used exclusively for his own benefit. So, he kept it stored on the right side of his desk, far away from Gwen and I, the cool air at full blast for his individual enjoyment. Jack turned out to be just as quiet and obtrusively self-absorbed as I first thought he was. He reminded me of Mr. Darcy, but without any of the charm, or value for the greater good. I guess the only way he was really like Mr. Darcy was in his cold stubbornness and inability to communicate. Maybe I could get Colin Firth to play Jack in the movie blockbuster adaptation of my summer. That was a movie premier that would only take place in my head at this rate. Besides the grips of loneliness climbing the depths of my heart, I had also been grappling with a severe lack of motivation. I had hardly written anything or journaled at all since I had arrived. I was supposed to be interviewing people by this point, asking the people in the office about their lives. Where was the talent of the ambitious reporter I had envisioned myself as? God, if this summer were a movie, who would the heroine even be? A girl who thought she could write a revolutionary story and then just thought “eh, better not”? Terrible. I thought that I would have established stronger friendships by now and that I would be able to sit-down individually with coworkers over lunch and ask them deep, personal questions about their lives. All of which, of course, they would respond to with complete and total honesty to me, the quiet American intern of the office. No, in reality I had become unexpectedly shy and unforgettable around the office. It was like I was observing 19th century manners as a child in Victorian England: don’t speak unless spoken to and never, ever stare at others. I almost wondered if it was a defense mechanism. I felt so out of place all of the time that I didn’t want to insert any flecks of my American, collegiate mannerisms and outcast myself even more. Jack and Gwen were only a few years older than me, but my usual icebreakers with people my age happened while I was intoxicated at parties. And something told me I would not be able to get Jack to go out on a wild bender with me. So, my loneliness persisted as a result of my own awkwardness. The only thing I truly looked forward to every week was Burger Thursday’s. It was the one time I knew I was guaranteed people to eat lunch with. In this way, life at Zander Communications wasn’t the picturesque dream I’d envisioned when I decided to work abroad. It was like I had regressed three social levels since arriving. I forgot how to talk to people my own age and never felt comfortable using humor. It was isolating work and the office became a sauna by 10 a.m. thanks to the wall of windows. There were no fancy parties for me to welcome diplomats and political officials to. I wasn’t included in meetings, or asked to help draft giant marketing campaigns. I still got a ton of emails though. That part felt very adult and official. My daily schedule usually consisted of drafting three news briefings, interspersed with two cups of coffee from the Nespresso machine in the kitchen. By 10 a.m. I’d read through the 15 emails that didn’t pertain to me, but consistently cluttered my inbox every morning. It felt like my personal morning gossip show and I’d read all of them religiously. By 10:15 I’d walk around the office trying to look busy, but a minute later would find myself hanging out in the bathroom stalls scrolling through my phone. Eventually someone would walk-in and I’d get anxious that they’d wonder who was in my occupied stall, so I’d scurry back to my desk and pass the rest of the morning off by writing in a Zander branded journal I’d found in the copy room. Around 11, I would patiently wait at my desk, lacking the initiative to ask anyone to go to lunch with me. It was really quite shameful my lack of confidence. I was always the first to ask others to go for food back at home. Then, either nobody would come up to me by 12:30 and I would shame walk to the sandwich shop two blocks away, or I would receive a last-minute general offer from someone on their way out. Thursday’s, however, were always my guarantee. Erno and Ronald would come find me and we’d laugh and joke our way to the burger truck. They quickly became my favorite people in the office. Together, Ronald and Erno were the relationships that gave me my sense of confidence back. I felt my footing more securely in the office and my charisma leaked its way back into my monotonous conversations with other coworkers. Through their friendship I realized my fears weren’t in being an outcast, but in not being liked by the other people in the office. I was not an intruder, I was the intern Caroline had selected and I had a place there, even if it was temporary. Loneliness had convinced patience that the assurance of companionship was unachievable. As a result, I’d hid behind a fear of not establishing relationships, which nearly resulted in me making none at all.The first night that we truly became friends was after we’d been required to stay late for a speaker event the office had decided to host for our clientele. In a matter of days, the three of us had poured hours into creating a guest list, finding catering, and creating marketing materials. We worked right up until the first client arrived at the doors and my hands shook as I stuffed the last nametag into its plastic holder. We socialized and networked, while simultaneously replenishing the plates of mini fruit pastries and bottles of cava. I sipped more than a few glasses myself, but I’d like to think that helped me clean up faster after the event ended. We had four bottles of the wine left over at the end of it all, each of us decided to take home a bottle for ourselves and we toasted the fourth in the kitchen. Our walk from the office to the Metro station was the chattiest I had been the entire course of my internship up until then. We made fun of the snooty clients, with designer suits that cost more than my student debt. We mocked our own decisions to order fruit pastries and contemplated the success of another day as interns. When we had to split off for our different Metro lines, me heading South into the main city and Ronald and Erno going to the outer boroughs, Erno surprised all of us by suddenly reaching out and wrapping me in a tight hug. I was fully shocked at first, catching the surprised eyes of Ronald before realizing what was happening and quickly accepting Erno’s unexpected embrace with touch-starved arms. The last time I’d been hugged by anyone was by my mom before I’d left. Joking about how we’d suddenly decided to be people that hugged each other, Ronald then also wrapped me up in a much quicker, but equally meaningful embrace. After that, the three of us became each other's daily lunch dates, first picks for drinks, and a trusted trio of confidants. My mood for going to work increased exponentially. Ronald often gave me a hard time, challenging my perspectives and playing devil’s advocate with my opinions. But I liked to fight-back. He was the only one who thought to ask me my perspective on anything. Our competitive natures were similar and after I swindled him in a ping-pong match during an office party one Friday, he never backed down from a sparring match to prove who was superior. I loved his frank openness, often being the first one I would go to with office gossip, or a rant about Caroline, who consistently proved herself as a heart attack waiting to happen. Her nervous energy often manifested into unclear demands for work that Ronald and I had no idea how to complete. We toasted to many a Burger Thursday on surviving another week of her last-minute deadlines.Erno was a different story. He was introspective to a fault, often thinking long into a conversation before contributing. His energy was a calm requite of agreement compared to the brass opinion of Ronald. Erno’s girlfriend had been backpacking across Europe on a Euro Rail pass after having graduated from college the past spring. Every few days we’d talk about her travel updates and he’d show me photos of her adventures. Erno was incredibly taken with her, and he’d often get lost in his own mind as we’d scroll through photos of the smiling, fair-haired girl posing against a backdrop of Swiss mountains, or at a crowded seaside. I could tell that he missed her deeply and my heart ached to ask him questions about their future, or their plans. But with Erno, it was better to let him come to you first, so I had to settle with the romance of Mansfield Park. But even Fanny Price was living a boring, romance less life and I could barely keep my eyes open at night as she fretted through the production of the forbidden play her cousins had decided to venture on. God, she was an annoying character. Why did she never speak up about situations where she felt uncomfortable? Maybe there was an underlying sense of irony there, considering my own muteness in the office up until recently. Still, it made for a terrible romantic story arc. Instead, I subverted my quest for romantic distractions into the complicated friendship of Francesco and Darcy. I had begun to invest a lot of internal time into observing the interactions between the two of them. After that first initial week, my classmates and I had gotten quickly absorbed in the demands of our individual internships and our paths rarely crossed once we returned home in the evenings on weekdays. It wasn’t until the weekends that we finally had a chance to catch-up and I could see how Francesco’s endeavors were received by Darcy. Even then, most of our group outings quickly delved into evenings in clubs and bars which didn’t prove much in the way of nosiness, but certainly benefited the needs of Carter. On one weekend in particular, everyone in the class departed for trips to Amsterdam, Paris, and London, leaving the odd assortment of just Carter, Darcy, Francesco, and I left. As deplorable as spending a night going clubbing with Carter sounded, it seemed to be my only option for Saturday night entertainment until Darcy called with a plan for the four of us to make dinner in her apartment. When I asked if she wanted me to come over early to help her prepare, I nearly burst out of my chair when she informed me with the news Francesco was already there to help out. Yes, yes yes! Let’s go, my guy. Francesco’s finally in! By 6 p.m., I was deep into an entire fantasy about the romantic subplot of my two classmates and barely noticed Carter’s slurred speech as I dragged him the four blocks to buy a bottle of wine before heading to dinner at our host’s apartment. On the way, he obligingly supplied me with the number of shots he’d decided to pregame with and I silently thanked the Lord that he was an easy drunk to take care of. I tugged his white shirt sleeve left and right as we passed a park, crossed the street, and rounded a mini market to the front door of Darcy’s building. “You don’t think she made something gross, do you? I’ll just like order myself pizza or something if it’s gross,” Carter slurred to me, rocking back and forth on his heels. I rang Darcy’s apartment number and quickly smoothed down the rumpled edges of the red summer dress I’d finally decided on five minutes before I left. “No, you’re not doing that,” I chastised, like he was a small child. Jesus, Carter sometimes you really are the greatest form of birth control a girl could ever need. Darcy quickly buzzed us in, and I hurried us to the 9th floor, one-bedroom apartment that overlooked the park we had previously passed. Who's to say what we ate, or what we said while we did so, but it was satisfactory enough to prevent Carter from ordering a meat lover’s delight, so I considered it to be quite a delightful meal. Drinks were poured, dishes were cleared and soon our young minds were filled with intoxicating kisses of Merlot that helped conversation flow quickly. At some point Carter had finally reached a new level of drunken inspiration and he declared it his sole mission in life to go out to the corner store and purchase more alcohol. Darcy, whose tender, motherly attentions instantly kicked-in upon hearing this proclamation, insisted on accompanying him to get the wine. Francesco and I were briefly left to just each other’s company and even the buzz I’d gotten wasn’t enough to suppress the awkward silence that overtook us once Carter’s loud ramblings had been shut out by the closing of the apartment door. I’d spent so much of the summer just watching the ways Francesco interacted with Darcy that I suddenly realized I had never actually talked to him. “So,” I edged out in an attempt to rack my brain for something the two of us might have in common. Thankfully, Francesco quickly interrupted me before I could ask what he thought of the Brussels Metro system. “I’m sorry to ask you this, and it might seem totally out of place, but…but am I an idiot?” He gushed to me quickly, leaving a heavy air of defeated exasperation to clog our already hazy senses. “Do I wha-” I stuttered out, sitting up from my slumped spot on the couch to get my brain to focus on what was happening instead of floating away in a swirling pool of senselessness. “I only ask because there’s three weeks left in this program and I don’t know when I’ll see Darcy again. I mean, you’re a girl, right? You know girls?”“Well, I mean, yeah I’m a-”“So, then what do I do? Why isn’t she interested in me?” I could feel my heart drop at his final question and my eyes searched his pained face for any chance of hope existing behind the expression of a man very much tired of loving a person who would never love him back. “I don’t know,” I told him, my voice soft and unsteady. There was no reason to lie to him, it was all very clear to me now. It was never a romance story in the making. It was the embodiment of a Fanny Price in love with her Edmund. Or, in this case, a Francesco in love with a girl whose judgement had caused her to pass him by and devote her heart to another. “I’m really sorry, Francesco.” His head hung in his hands at the answer that surely didn’t quiet the aches of embarrassment and longing that plagued his mind. My hand instinctively reached out to his to offer as comfort to the things my words would never bring him. I swallowed my guilt and was instead overcome very suddenly with my own romantic loss with Mitchell. He was equally as gone from me as Darcy was from Francesco. Albeit the situations between the relationships were different, but I had once burdened Francesco’s pain and it was enough to bind us in unspoken understanding. Despite my efforts, I had not let go of Mitchell when I’d left earlier this summer. My hands, this entire time, were still desperately clasping the air for his own. But they weren’t ever there, and they never would be. Some people would never love you as much as you loved them. And it had taken until now, until finally seeing Darcy and Francesco for what they were to realize it.I was done with the chase for love, whether it be in my own life, or at the fantasized expense of other people’s lives. Mitchell could only love himself, there was no room for me. Why was it that one person could feel so deeply for someone who already felt deeply for another, like a chain of missed connections stretching on in an unending chase for equal passion? The whole night had felt like a cold slap in the face, followed by a breath of fresh air that let me soak in my first gulps of clarity that summer. I had made it through, and eventually, so would Francesco. But for now, it served as a personal reminder to stop searching my days for romance. I had been distracting my own logic with promises of love stories that would never get written.Francesco made a quick recovery by the time Darcy and Carter returned with another bottle of wine. But I barely made it through another glass before it became clear that it was time to take Carter back to our apartments. I had just enough of the wine left in my system, and plenty to occupy my thoughts with for the walk-back, to make Carter’s story about some spring break in Cabo more tolerable. When we left, Francesco was still sitting at his same spot on the couch as Darcy bustled around cleaning up a few leftover napkins and glasses. His shoulders hung slumped, but his eyes followed her with devotion as I dragged Carter out the door. Fanny still had 200 pages left for a happy ending, maybe there was still time left for Francesco, too. ????? When my suitcase was packed and positioned by the front door for my mad dash to the airport the next morning, I finally felt the weight of all that I had experienced in Brussels wash over me. Now that my internship was officially over, I would spend the next two weeks traveling around Germany, Poland, Spain, and Ireland in search of the capstone research I still hadn’t started. After that, I’d end the summer with four days in Scotland, to visit Lockerbie and understand more about my duties as a future Remembrance Scholar. Then, finally, regretfully, thankfully, or sadly—I couldn’t decide—I’d be going back home.Carter had left weeks before, not that I ever actually saw him invest more than a 5-hour workday into his internship. After dinner at Darcy’s, I had barely spoken to either her, or Francesco. Perhaps it was for the best. I had finally found solace in my own internship at Zander and I spent every second I could either in the office helping with extra projects, or going out with Erno and Ronald. They would be the two people I would miss the most. We’d said goodbye earlier that evening over burgers and beer, as was tradition, even though it was Friday. I’d finally gotten enough stamps for a free burger the day before, on what was supposed to be the celebratory Last Burger Thursday event, but we agreed that we should have one more final goodbye burger in order to redeem my coveted reward. I had written each of them letters, in French cards I’d picked up at the bookstore next to the office. I had no idea what either of the French inscriptions said, but I attempted to buy ones with neutral images of flowers and grey clouds. For all I knew, I’d just congratulated Erno on getting married and passed on my deepest condolences to Ronald about the loss. It was truly impossible for me to tell, so I told them to wait until I’d left to open them. As far as the rest of the office, there were others that I would certainly miss. Gwen had continued to be a constant positive in our little desk cluster. I couldn’t imagine who I would’ve had the nerve to ask about the copying machine so many times in one day like I had with her in my first week there. Jack continued to be unaffected by my presence, as I was sure would be the case on Monday when my chair was empty. I began to think of him as less of a Mr. Darcy, but more as a realistic caricature of a man who was at odds with himself. He reminded me a lot of myself in a way I never could have imagined when I first met him. He was introverted and at times, socially distant to a fault. If it hadn’t been for the break in acceptance by Ronald and Erno, I don’t know what would have helped me escape my protective shell. Perhaps, if I was at Zander for years like Jack, I would act the same way. He just wanted acceptance, and it was my biggest regret to have never made an effort to extend even the smallest hand of friendship to him.I mulled over all of this, exhausted over the emotional burden of endings, but happy that I would soon have the distraction of a new adventure to my summer tomorrow. The whirr of the fan nearly stirred me into slumber as I thought about these goodbyes, but I suddenly shot up-right when I realized there was one goodbye I hadn’t had. And I knew the perfect way to do it. At 8 o’clock I ran out to the corner market one last time and made my final purchase in Brussels before stumbling back home and going to bed. In the morning, before heading out the front doors of the apartments one last time, now a much different woman than the one I was when I first arrived, I stopped at the front desk and gave Colville a desk fan, just for him. One small enough to fit by the computer monitor so that management wouldn’t deprive him of finally feeling cool air hit his face. Chapter 8: Lockerbie, ScotlandThe second part of this book takes place in Lockerbie, Scotland. In 1988, 35 Syracuse University students were flying home from a semester abroad in London when a bomb exploded on board their plane, Pan Am Flight 103. 270 people lost their lives in the terrorist attack, including 11 people in the town of Lockerbie, Scotland, where the plane crashed. Syracuse University has since established the Remembrance Scholarship in memory of the students that were lost on that day.The Remembrance Scholars are a carefully selected group of 35 rising seniors who are selected through a round of essay applications and interviews. Once selected, the 35 students will spend their senior year representing one of the 35 students who were lost onboard Pan Am 103. They will learn about their student’s interests, friends, and experiences, helping their memory live-on past the terrorist attack that ended their life early. Every week in October, the Remembrance Scholars host Remembrance Week, which has events across campus created in order to celebrate and remember the 35 students. Families and friends of the victims, the university population, and the surrounding community are invited to take part in the multiple presentations, concerts, vigils, etc., that are held. Each academic year, two students from Lockerbie Academy, in Lockerbie, Scotland, are also selected through an application process to attend one year of school at Syracuse University after they graduate high school. During their time abroad in America, they also help the Remembrance Scholars plan Remembrance Week. For the 2019-2020 school year, I was selected as a Remembrance Scholar. When I decided to visit Lockerbie in the summer of 2019, after my internship abroad ended, I did not know the student I was going to “represent” for my Remembrance year, as that would be selected in the fall. However, during my application process, I used the Bird Library Archives to learn more about one student that I felt particularly connected to: Richard “Rick” Paul Monetti. Rick Monetti was a junior at Syracuse, with a passion for sports, journalism, and sarcasm. His writings, including his journals from his time abroad in London, offered incredible perspectives on life and I knew, before I had even finished applying to the scholarship, that he was the person I wanted to represent.When I learned in the spring of my junior year that I would be a Remembrance Scholar, I decided that I was going to visit Lockerbie while abroad that summer. I wanted to visit out of respect for Rick, to meet the people of Lockerbie, and to understand the events better in the hopes that it would help me become a better Scholar. In the final weeks of my internship in Brussels, I reached out to one of the Remembrance advisors from Syracuse, Vanessa St. Oegger-Menn, for help in finding people to meet while I was in Lockerbie. She quickly responded with a long list of names and emails of residents who she believed would be comfortable talking to me. The first name on the list was Colin Dorrance, whose two children, Claire and Andy had been Lockerbie Scholars. Claire was a scholar during the 2012-2013 academic year, and Andy during the 2017-2018 academic year. In 1988, Colin was an 18-year-old policeman. He had been driving into Lockerbie on the night of December 21st for a Christmas party. When Pan Am 103 exploded, Colin became the youngest police officer on the scene and spent the night assisting in the search for the recovery of victims. Since then, Colin and his wife Judith have hosted hundreds of visitors from around the world who have come to Lockerbie to grieve and heal. For the 30th anniversary of the attacks, Colin also created a bike ride from Lockerbie to Syracuse to finish the journey the 35 Syracuse students never had a chance to.The following passage explores my trip to Lockerbie and represents a more researched and academic part of my work. While it is still told through my memory and includes components of creative nonfiction, the names that are introduced have not been changed, and they are all real people with real experiences in relation to the bombing of Pan Am 103. Dialogue was not recorded and later transcribed but written in the way I remember it being told to me. It is my hope that I have done so respectfully and accurately. ????? My 6 a.m. flight out of Belfast was only made easier because of my hotel’s proximity to the airport, and I barely had enough time on the hour journey to Glasgow to put some semblance of sleep back into my body. I was back to traveling the Crawford way: wake up early, explore all day, go to bed late and sleep when you’re dead. It was what I’d been raised to do since my first trip out of the country at nine months old. Even the longest of yawns couldn’t make me feel unhappy—but it was still hard to be doing it all alone.When I arrived in Glasgow, I took a bus from the airport into the main part of the city in search of the train station. After a few small stops along the way to ask for directions, something that I felt unexpectedly confident doing now, I located the building and purchased my one-way ticket to Lockerbie. I didn’t know why I ever felt so guilty asking strangers for help before. I’d never judged anyone in my life who asked me to point them in the right direction. I was always happy to assist. Why did I always assume the worst in people and expect them to shoo me away? I thought back upon that first day in Brussels when I had been trying to find the Metro. Hah, that day felt so long ago now. All the stress and sweat and confusion of those first few moments in Europe. Hell, even that Sarah felt so long ago now. I hadn’t lost her, but I certainly wasn’t the same girl. Deep in thought, I continued this candid conversation within my mind while the rest of my physical self went through the motions of purchasing breakfast foods, drinking coffee, and searching for a place to store my luggage for the next two hours. I knew Lockerbie was a small town, so I wanted a chance to explore a Scottish city before my train arrived. The Crawford’s were a low-land Scottish clan, and it was always something I took pride in.When my aunt was an officer in the navy, she took a trip to Scotland for a few days while stationed in England. She told me a story about how she went to a pub looking for a drink, when she met an older gentleman who struck up a conversation with her when he heard her loud American accent. According to her, he stopped very suddenly when she talked about being a Crawford and said in a serious tone, “Oh you’re a Crawford? Come on, I’ll take you to see your castle then.” Now if this had been any other person in this situation, certainly every internal warning signal would have immediately gone off. But my aunt was an adventurous badass with no assumptions of ill-will in mankind and quickly took him up on his offer. So off they went, two strangers bound by a shared conversation in a pub, and he took her to see my family’s castle. 20 minutes later, there they stood in a heap of rocks and rubble on the side of a hill, enclosed not by a stone fortress but by the bellowing laughter of the old man who said, “There’s your castle, or at least what’s left of it.” So, suffice it to say, that’s why we don’t have any architects in my family. With my luggage safely stowed away in a rented locker, I wandered around the city feeling more at home than I ever had during my two months living in Brussels. Perhaps this was a doing of my own creation, a trick of mind, or maybe there really was something to be said about returning to your native land. My ancestors had lived here for centuries before leaving for the United States. I liked the idea that my soul still felt at peace here, like it was merely a patchwork of the lives and stories of the family members who had come before me. Einstein said matter could neither be created nor destroyed, so why couldn’t we assume the same was true about souls? Glasgow was unequivocally beautiful, boasting cobblestoned streets and old Victorian architecture. Every building gave me the impression of belonging in a fairytale book, and I was the lucky adventurer who had accidently stumbled into the magical world. As was true to Scottish weather, the day was overcast and offered a coolness to a summer day in August which I found the best welcome of all. By 11 a.m., I had returned to the train station, retrieved my luggage, and boarded my train to Lockerbie. Most of the cars were empty, and I found a seat in the rear of the coach to nestle into for the next two hours. From here I could switch between watching the Scottish farmland rush by or observe the few other passengers who were seated nearby. Two hours. I only had about 50 pages of Mansfield Park left to read, but I still had four days left in the trip. If I finished it now, I would have nothing to read later. Besides, there was something appealing about being in the final few pages of a story that promised a happy ending. It was like the night before Christmas, or the excitement you felt before the visit of an old friend. The expectations, the wonder of the unknown, and the hope for the extraordinary had always supplied me with the most unrivaled happiness in life. There was so much to imagine, with none of the knowledge of what actually would be. My summer companions in Fanny Price and Edmund Bertram had been my source of comfort on this portion of solitary travel and to lose them now would be the end of a friendship I wasn’t ready to part with. Fifty pages left was as good as an infinite storyline in my eyes. Who knew what was yet in store for them? Who knew what was left in store for me. Well, if I couldn’t read, at least I could write. There was barely any time left in this so-called educational adventure of mine, and I still had yet to find the motivation to put any of my experiences to paper. I looked at my backpack sitting next to me, my laptop surely resting inside. But I couldn’t bring myself to open it and start. Without writing, the whole summer would have had no point. Yet the reason I stalled was because…because, what if the things I had to say were pointless, too? Under this internal conflict, I sunk down into my seat and felt the urge to cry, but no tears were produced. Great, now I’m even too lazy to cry when I want to. What’s wrong with me? I felt the heat of my worried thoughts rush up from my chest, scratch my neck, and leave hot red stains of shame on my face. I was panicking. I was panicking and fighting with myself in the arena of a quiet train car where the audience was just peaceful, Scottish countryside passing by in the windows. What’s something that could distract me? Reading. I would read through some of the old Remembrance Scholar documents I had brought with me specifically for this portion of the trip. With this new plan in place to grind my mind back into reality, I zipped open the portion of my backpack which did not contain my computer and pulled out my notebook stuffed with articles and pamphlets. I found a photocopied article that was published by the university newspaper when the plane went down, a pamphlet that revealed information about the Remembrance Scholarship, and another with a letter congratulating me on being accepted as a 2019-2020 Scholar. I leafed through a few pages of my handwritten notes—ones that I had scribbled at the library’s archives only a few weeks before I left for the summer. When I found out I had become a Remembrance Scholar, I was overwhelmed with disbelief that I had actually been accepted. I’d wanted to be a Scholar since the first time I visited Syracuse the summer before my senior year of high school. After the initial shock and excitement had passed, and once news had been shared with family and friends, I came under the power of two clear, inarguable decisions in my head. The first was that I would travel to Lockerbie after my internship ended. I guessed since I was sitting on the train, I could consider that goal checked-off. The second was that I would do everything possible to represent the student, Richard “Rick” Paul Monetti. That checkbox remained unfilled. And it would remain so until I returned to school in the fall to actually begin my time as a Remembrance Scholar. That’s when I would find out the student I would represent. Normally, this amount of uncertainty would send me into a tizzy of scenarios and anxiety which would leave me completely incapacitated to even venture further on the topic. But with Rick it was different. I felt a connection with his story in a way that simply escaped words. And it filled me with a calmness for the future that the right person would be chosen to share his story—even if that person didn’t end up being me.I stopped shuffling through my collection of documents when I spotted a page that was half-filled, only a few bullet points written at the top of the paper. It was from my last trip to the archives and contained my notes from a collection of Rick’s old writings. I scanned the words I had chosen to save from the thousands that he had written, and my eyes fell upon the very last line in quotes, “If I like what I write, that's the first step. If you can't impress yourself, who can you impress?” I read the words over again. And then again. And again. “If I like what I write, that’s the first step.” He had been about three years younger than me when he had written that in his dorm room back in Syracuse. It was simple. But the words spoke to me like a preacher on the hill declaring that water could become wine and that after life on Earth there was salvation before us. I resolved that I needed to write for myself and if I couldn’t handle that, I needed to write for Rick. And upon that decision the train came to a stop and a sign that read “Lockerbie” framed itself perfectly in the window ahead of me. ????? 31 years ago, in the fall of 1988, a group of students left their hometowns in America to spend a semester abroad. They would live in London for four months—traveling, partying, and going to classes. These students would form bonds, create memories, and experience incredible adventures together that would become the stories that bound them together for a lifetime. At least that was how it should have been. Their stories should have been about their traditions, or favorite pubs, or weekend trips. But instead something tragic would group 35 of them under a different story, one of an infamous event that cut their lives permanently short.On December 23, 35 Syracuse students boarded Pan Am Flight 103 to return home just in time to spend the holidays with their eager, expectant families. On the plane, their luggage was stowed away filled with souvenirs, portfolios of work, photographs, and writings detailing their experiences. Unbeknownst to them, another piece of luggage had also been loaded onto the plane—void of any personal possessions. One piece of luggage contained a terrorist bomb, which would explode approximately 38 minutes after their plane had taken off. One piece of luggage that would kill all 259 passengers on board, and 11 residents in the town below as pieces of the destroyed plane slammed into the small neighborhoods of Lockerbie, Scotland. The tragedy was indescribable. It would take a week of investigation by Scottish authorities—recovering wreckage, cleaning up Sherwood Crescent, and talking to residents—to determine that the “Lockerbie Air Disaster” wasn’t really a disaster at all. It was an act of terrorism.?????When I was in 11th grade, I took my mom on a weekend trip to Syracuse, New York, to tour the only college I had truly dreamed of applying to. It was my escape out of my hometown, away from the pain of a fresh divorce and the grips of a stationary lifestyle. I could not fall into the traps of monotonous routine and meaningless work. The greatest excitement of the year was just a week-long summer trip to a beach two hours away. I craved more—no, I needed more. And Syracuse was that fresh start.On our tour of the campus, we walked past the Neoclassical pillars supporting the looming library and we looped over the quad, back around the winding road to the limestone tower of the Hall of Languages. Several feet down the crest of a hill, in front of this building, was a half-arched wall where our tour guide stopped us. Engraved into the front facing portion of this structure were the names of 35 students whose lives would mean more to me than I could have realized in that moment. Our tour guide’s voice dipped into the first serious note of the day as she described the tragedy that had unfolded that December night. As I learned, for the first time, about the fates of the students’ names before me, I became overwhelmed with an inexplicable, predetermined feeling that I had to help their memories live on in some way.When we drove away from campus that evening, I wasn’t sure if I was even going to be admitted to the university, but I knew that I would be a part of the Remembrance Scholar program. Four years later, I was. ?????The train rolled to a stop and I quickly gathered my belongings and headed for the door. A conductor was already waiting expectantly for me and tipped his head towards me with a small smile as he helped me down the steps and onto the platform. The train car had certainly been quiet, but now faced with the open air again, I became acquainted with a new kind of uninterrupted silence which could only be found in the country. In the distance, a few train cars down, was a well-built, middle-aged man who stood with his hands in the pockets of nicely pleated khaki pants and loafers that bounced back-in-forth on the pavement as he waited for someone. I knew instantly that the man was Colin Dorrance, despite never having seen a photograph of him before. And I knew that the person he was waiting for...was me.His head swiveled over to me as the train rolled back into motion, and I was greeted with an unexpected grin and yell as he made his way over. Truly, I don’t know what I imagined my reception would be when I arrived in the town. It certainly hadn’t been a greeting at the train station. A part of me felt a twinge of guilt for being here—almost like I was contributing to dark tourism, even though my intentions were pure. Maybe I thought the people in town would roll their eyes at me, or be angry for visiting with the purpose of finding out more about the darkest period in Lockerbie’s history.But his eyes didn’t roll in disgust. They crinkled with kindness as he took in the sight of me from across the way. I felt like a family member returning home from a long absence, which was ridiculous considering this would be the first time we would ever have met each other. Maybe it was just that I wasn’t used to having anyone waiting for me when I arrived at a new place. “Sarah?” he called out, but before I could even confirm my identity, he had wrapped me in a warm hug and the natural tension in my shoulders relaxed at the unexpected embrace. “Yes, hi, hi,” I repeated in a rush of happy anxiety at this welcome. “You must be Mr. Dorrance, it’s so nice to finally meet you in person. Thank you for meeting me at the train station, you really didn’t have to do that.”“Oh nonsense,” he replied, brushing off the idea as if it physically hurt him to even hear it spoken. “We’re delighted to have you come and visit us. Please, let me take your luggage.” Just hearing his Scottish brogue was enough to break down my initial defenses and uncertainty, and a smile quickly warmed me to my senses. He grabbed the suitcase handle and I instinctively followed him off the platform and up a set of stairs like he was my trusted tour guide of many years. This is exactly why I would get kidnapped so easily. “My wife Judith and I are so excited to have you here with us, I’m sorry that we don’t have any rooms at our house to offer you, but don’t let that stop you from coming over for a few meals. You can even watch a movie or two if you just want to wind down after some of the things you experience here. It can be quite emotionally taxing stuff.” His voice traveled firmly, unbroken by the curls of August wind that instantly tangled my unwashed hair. I thanked him for his hospitality as quickly as I could. Movies and dinner? Wow, this was certainly not the greeting I had been expecting. I don’t even get treated this well when I come home from college during spring break. “That is really too kind, I don’t want to inconvenience either of you.”“Not in the least,” he replied with a laugh and another quick dismissal of my gratitude. It was all performed in a rare type of way that made me wonder if people could do things for others without being motivated by self-interest. He was like a Scottish Santa Claus. We crossed over the bridge, the now empty train tracks waiting patiently for their next arrival 15 feet beneath us. I couldn’t help but take in the scenery around me as we walked, observing each tree that blocked the view of town and the gray sky that gave the effect of everything in eyesight being enclosed in a glass globe. I craned my neck up to trick myself, even if temporarily, into believing that such an enclosure could really be true.“Wow, the Scottish scenery is so—” WHA-CLANGGG!! My right shoulder suddenly ricocheted off of a metal lamp post that I had unknowingly veered into during my hippie sky observations. I stumbled backwards, more in shock than in actual pain as the sound of my bones reverberated around the station and I collapsed to the pavement. Colin turned around, his face painted chiefly in surprise, but then melted into concern. Lord knows what my face must have looked like to him. I quickly recovered myself with a laugh loud enough to conceal the embarrassed red flooding my cheeks as I tried to bounce back off the ground. “Whoa, where’d that pole come from? Hah, hah.” Oh my God, you complete moron. That was the recovery line we decided to go with? “In all my years of hosting people from all over the world, I’ve never seen anyone pick a fight with a lamp post within their first five minutes in Lockerbie…. Let alone lose to one, too,” He reflected with amazement. At first, I was a little taken aback. That was sarcasm, right? Or, am I just so sleep deprived that I totally misheard him. But the delivery was so serious, that I must have looked at him with a figurative question mark over my head before he finally cracked a small smile at me. “Ah yes, well,” I prepared, ready to fire back now that I understood his meaning. “I aim to make a memorable first impression.” In the weeks I’d spent traveling alone it was as if I had forgotten how to joke with someone. It made me miss Ronald and our daily office banter back in Brussels. We made our way to his car, which was not hard to identify in the completely empty lot and continued to make small talk. Again, he exceeded my expectations for what the day would bring. He had an entire itinerary already planned out—considerate enough to check for my approval with each suggestion, of course. First up, was to head to his house to meet his wife and have a small lunch before we would visit our first location of the day. I’d never been to a foreign neighborhood, or home, before this. It was like driving into a neighborhood from my suburbs back home—except the houses were modestly sized and not built to reflect colonial era America. There weren’t sprawling American green lawns, and private shrubberies, either. The development was open, and flat, partially because, as Colin would explain, the neighborhood was still being built. As we pulled into the loose-gravel driveway, a smiling woman poked her head out of what I imagined to be the kitchen window and cheerfully called out to us. “Lovely, you’re here! I’ve just put tea on the kettle, come on in!”A grumble of my stomach accepted her invitation before I could verbally respond and when we made our way inside, I was instantly welcomed with a warm hug. It was inexplicable how natural all of this felt. Certain people just had a magic about them that made you feel like you’d known them in every reincarnation of your life. And somehow Judith and Colin had both been blessed with that power.She was shorter than me, but her quick, excited way of speaking made her appear larger than anyone else in the room. Judith commanded attention in a way that I’d only ever seen in one other person, my mother. It was the kind where expectation of company, and eagerness to be accommodating, helped drive the conversation and activity of the moment so that the guest was instantly entertained. She was lovely. Where Colin was a Scottish Santa, she was a Scottish Mary Poppins. I hadn’t even had a chance to feel worried about being thrust into something new before I had found myself completely at ease within their home. My empty hands were quickly occupied with a cup of tea and the answers to questions about my journey and school were flowing out of my mouth. If she hadn’t appeared so genuinely invested with what I had to say, I would have felt embarrassed with my sudden discovery in extroversion.“Hey Mom, have you seen my tie?” An unknown voice called out from down the hall. It made me jump with such a start I sloshed a bit of the tea across my pale blue jeans. Shit, shit, it looks like I just peed myself. Luckily, the question was enough to save my spastic movement from the notice of Judith, who peaked her head out of the kitchen and directed the person to the hamper underneath the sink in the bathroom. I searched around for a napkin in a slight panic and tried to clean up the mess. Why the Hell was I being such a klutz today? God dammit, could we at least pretend to make ourselves look well-put together for these nice people, even if just for a second? Judith returned to the table with a small laugh, “Sorry about that, my son is a bit late getting ready for work.” “Son?” The words slipped out unintentionally at my own surprise. When I was given Colin’s email address, the director had told me that he had two children who had been Lockerbie Scholars, but I had just assumed they’d be much older by now.“Thanks, Mom. Found it!” The voice called out again, this time coming closer and before I knew it I was face-to-face with this previously unknown son. He was preoccupied with the final loop of his black tie that completed the rest of a black ensemble, his dress pants and button up shirt all nicely pressed. His wavy black hair fell loosely down to the right side of his face as he worked. “Andy, this is Sarah. She’s a Remembrance Scholar who’s visiting for a few days.” He tightened his tie with a final flourish and his eyes quickly met mine. This day had already been full of a lot of unexpected surprises, but this addition to the party had topped all of them. “Nice to meet ya Sarah, sorry, I hadn’t realized you were coming so soon!”“Oh, so you didn’t just dress up for me?” I quipped. For a moment he didn’t speak and the silence that filled the kitchen felt like it lasted for 20 years. Thankfully, a small smirk found its way across his face. Perhaps he was just as taken back by my sarcasm as I had been with his father’s. “No, no, sorry we’re not that accommodating here,” he said, selecting his words carefully, with a small chuckle under his breath. He breezed past me to grab one of the sandwiches that Judith had just brought to the table during our brief interaction. Great, I finally interacted with a guy for the first time since July and there’s a fake pee stain on my pants.We quickly ate together at the wooden table, given that Andy had to be at work within the half-hour and I had Colin’s schedule on the docket. I learned very quickly that the entire family shared the same type of sarcastic, quick humor. It started with Colin’s mention of my losing brawl with the lamp post at the train station, which entered me into the ring of a non-serious chastising for causing trouble in their town. At every other point in my life it had always taken me time to thaw into honest, witty conversation with other people—partially due to my innate desire to please others until they liked me. But their willingness to pick on me so quickly made me realize how much I missed the intellectual challenges that were ingrained in my closest friendships back home. After all, was that not how Ronald and I had also gotten so close? So, I took the bait and bit back. And the result of such was all...perfect. ?????Getting back into the family Vauxhall, Colin and I headed to our first location of the day. While Syracuse University had the Remembrance Wall to commemorate the 35 students’ lives, Lockerbie had a similar memorial and garden to remember all 270 lives that were lost aboard the flight, including memorials for the 11 residents who were killed in the town. It was decided that going to see that memorial first would be a bit strong of a place to start, so Colin said we would make our journey there the next day. That meant we would first head to the locations where parts of the plane had landed, instead.We headed out of town, driving on an empty country road through rolling green hills dotted with cows. For a while, it was silent, and I let the noise in my mind narrate the scenery as I watched the cows lazily eating and walking through the open space before them. They were living and breathing just like me—yet they possessed none of the pressures of time and fear of finite endings. They would live their existence in that field unaware of the outside world and of unjust death. Existing in the world and yet not existing in the gravity of knowledge. The car turned into the parking lot of a stone church. The Parish was nestled on a flat section of land that separated a grand hillside from an immediate rolling decline. Over centuries, the stone had weathered into a gray moss mixture, making itself a part of the scenery as much as the nearby trees. The small tower on the back right of the church overlooked a graveyard, which was enclosed by a similarly styled stone fence. We walked to the edge of this enclosure, and faced outwards, to where the hill began its descent again. The clouds in the sky still enclosed the remaining world, but from this vantage point much more of the surrounding country was visible and I almost felt my eyes perceive the curve of the Earth on the horizon. “This field in front of us is where the cockpit of the plane landed,” Colin explained. I’d seen the photographs in the library archives and now struggled to connect the horrific images to the peaceful scene that was before us. The pictures had shown a large section of the jumbo jet, lying flat on its side against the grass, the words “Maid of the Seas” still legible against the brown, destroyed Earth. When authorities found it, the cockpit was still mostly intact, but luggage, shrapnel, and pieces of metal were strewn about the scene. And here was this place of worship, this holy sanctuary where people could attend to pray to their God and receive his protection from the horrors of life—resting, watching like the cows in the fields only a few feet away. And then there was the graveyard, also positioned so close to this place of unjustified death. How many people buried here were also cheated from their time on Earth?Colin led me to a small watch room, no bigger than a shed, but built with the same sturdy stone, that stood near a few of the graves. Inside the dark structure, lit by a sash window, were plaques along the walls. One read, “And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.” A green book sat on a wooden table in the back, and I knew before I had even approached it that it was On Eagle’s Wings. I had read the book, which gave short biographies and pictures of nearly every victim, when I had applied to be a Scholar. Even though I was familiar with the contents, it was the first time I had seen the book in person, and I read over its contents again. Colin and I talked about the names, ones we recognized as Syracuse students and one’s of victims whose family members he had met when they made their own pilgrimage to Lockerbie in the past few years.Then, I found Rick’s page. There was his photo, a side shot of him smiling, his left shoulder turned into the camera as if he had been preoccupied with a conversation only seconds prior, but was still willing to appease the photographer with a bright grin. Don’t sit back, make the most of everything. Do all you can while you can. Life is a one-time deal…. The opportunity is here, stop looking past it.His words came flooding into my head as I studied the photograph. They were from his philosophies of life, or what he had titled “What I’ve Learned in 20 Years,” which had been recovered from his belongings and returned to his family. Rick had written so much while he was abroad. No, not just while he was abroad. He had discipline; he was diligent about making himself write every single day. He knew how to make the most out of everything.I closed the book and we left the room, walked past the graves and the church, got back into the car and drove past the field and away from the scene altogether. ?????We drove back into town, this time with a different feeling of silence—one even within my own mind. I imagined Colin was used to this, after having so many visitors do this same journey over the years. We drove past the town center, and a statue of metal sheep that lined themselves in front of the town hall. Our next stop was Sherwood Crescent, a roundabout street at the far end of one of Lockerbie’s neighborhoods. It was here that the wings of the plane had collided with several homes after making a rapid descent from 10,000 feet above and being carried by the wind far-off from the original destination of the explosion in the air. As Colin showed me photographs of the neighborhood after that night, which had left a deep gash in the Earth and decimated any trace of human existence, he began to tell me his own connection to the events of the night. On that December evening, Colin had been driving into Lockerbie by himself in the family car, after finally deciding that he would attend a friend’s Christmas party. Only a few weeks prior, he had lost one of his closest friends, Angela, who had been killed in a car accident. The sudden death of a girl he was once so close to had been nearly impossible to come to terms with. It was the main reason for not wanting to go celebrate the holidays that night, but he knew that Angela would not have wanted him to turn away from the world and mourn forever. So, he went. As 18-year-old Colin drove on the highway from his home in Carlisle into Lockerbie, Pan Am 103 traveled the same route overhead, albeit at a much faster speed, where 20-year-old Rick sat in seat 20E. Both were completely unaware of the bomb that was stored in a piece of luggage moments away from detonation. What Colin recalls next is the town suddenly coming to light in the darkness before him, as a fireball exploded into the sky, like a nuclear bomb going off. His first thoughts were that a gas line had exploded in the middle of town. As a recent addition to the Lockerbie police force, his training immediately kicked-in and he pressed on the gas to speed into town. What he saw when he reached the scene was a world on fire. Flames leapt from buildings all around the neighborhood of Sherwood Crescent and the sky turned into smoke tinged with red and orange. Police and townspeople were already gathered around the area, trying to make sense of what had caused the fire. The remains of the wings, whose nearly full fuel tanks had caused the bomb-like explosion upon impact, were wiped off the face of the Earth. As were eleven Lockerbie residents who had been safe in their homes only moments before impact. After the initial confusion of the disaster, multiple reports about other areas of impact around town began circulating among the police officers and it was determined that what had happened was a plane crash. Initially, Colin explained, they began a hurried search for survivors. But within a few short hours, they realized that there was no race to save lives, only a search for bodies.?????Before heading back to the Dorrance homestead for dinner, we made one last stop through a different neighborhood on the opposite side of town. The neighborhood was subsidized housing for people of lower-middle class backgrounds and featured houses built closer together, most connected in long rows on the street. Here, no ultimate destruction had been created like at Sherwood Crescent, but a single engine had launched itself into the asphalt road outside of a row of the houses. It was a miracle that it hadn’t exploded. If it had, there was no question that the number of casualties would have insurmountably increased. It felt odd to describe a miracle while talking about something that felt so far from every connotation that a “miracle” suggested. There was no act of God that protected the people on the plane from this. There was no divine intervention that saved the eleven men, women and children from being in their homes on that night. And yet, within this unspeakable tragedy there were remnants of small miracles within. But how does one make sense of that? How does one justify a small good amongst an unbearable weight of bad? These were things that I just couldn’t understand, or find an answer to. Colin took me to my hotel back in the middle of the town, where I checked-in and placed my suitcase in the Victorian-era room on the second floor. For a brief minute I stood in the room, fully alone for the first time that entire day, and wept silently until I could find composure again. ?????Back at the Dorrance house, I helped Judith with dinner as Colin left to pick up Andy from his work waiting tables at the town’s country club. She and I bounced around a variety of topics as we washed vegetables, set out plates on their patio and made even more tea. Our conversations ranged from favorite movies, to how she and Colin met, and her work as a special education teacher. By the time we had finished laying everything out on the table, Colin and Andy had returned home. We sat down for dinner and I don’t think I could ever recall being so happy to finally have a home cooked meal again. It was a taste of Heaven served on a white ceramic plate. The same banter resumed, picking up right where it had left off during lunch, and we played a round of “secrets” in which each person had to describe an interesting, unknown fact about themselves to the table.The summer sun yawned against the backdrop of a day that had finally cleared away the clouds, and the roast chicken and biscuits and salad were replaced with glasses of wine and berries and cream for dessert. We refilled our drinks multiple times over, as stories were placed on top of other stories that reminded someone of “that time when…” or a quick interjection of “Oh, you’ll just love hearing about when so-and-so did this.” I sat as the happy listener between multiple acts and adventurous retelling of great memories. My favorite part about hearing a group of people recall a story was not just the guaranteed “No, it happened like this,” or affirmation of “yes, yes!” being exclaimed as the tale progressed, but the feeling of becoming intertwined in it, as if I too were there for the great series of events, wherein reality the very existence of it ever having occurred on Earth was being told to me then. But wasn’t that the beauty of a story itself? When the decorative lights, that were strung about the patio area, failed to even offset the night sky any longer, and the faces of people who had been complete strangers to me only 24 hours before returned to blurry features in the dark, we made our way inside. It was roughly past midnight. Upon realizing the time, I became anxious that I had far overstayed my welcome. But if I had, neither Judith nor Colin made me any the wiser. As I gathered my few belongings, which was really just my hotel key and my backpack, Colin offered to walk me back to my hotel. Judith engulfed me in a quick hug, and I waved goodbye to Andy before we set off into the brisk Scottish night.The air instantly sparked to life by the sounds of crickets and the occasional ribbits from unseen frogs. A slight breeze would rustle the leaves overhead every few seconds as we made the short walk back into the center of town—our journey interspersed with dots from the overhead streetlights. “So, what do you think about your first day in Lockerbie?” Colin asked. I racked my brain for what to say, quietly, for about ten seconds before responding. “It’s been surreal to be here in person, after reading about it for so long. It’s different than I expected it to be, but in a good way.”“How so?”“I was worried people would be angry to have an outsider come visit specifically to learn more about the terrorist attack,” I admitted, almost taken aback by my own honesty.“Well,” Colin said, mulling it over. “You’ll find that there are some people here who feel that way because they don’t want to talk about what happened. They just want to move on with their lives. But then there are some of us who feel like sharing the story is important.” I nodded silently, thinking about Colin’s own very personal involvement during that night and how trusting he had been to share with me earlier. The cricket noises faded away as we crossed a bridge over a small creek. The country road was devoid of any cars, and I could barely make out the first signs of the town center in the windows of an old pub a few yards ahead.I opened my mouth to voice these thoughts, but before I had a chance one of the toads we had been hearing the whole walk suddenly leapt out onto the sidewalk in front of me. My right foot, already in mid-air to take another step, instinctively tried to correct itself to prevent my red Vans from being stained in frog blood. But my coordination, whether it was from the alcohol or sheer exhaustion, was unwilling to submit to my needs and instead made direct contact with the front of his squishy brown toad body, and I watched in absolute horror as I punted him clear down the pathway, past a streetlight, and into the night. All that was left was the lingering trills of shriek that had escaped from my mouth and the small croak the toad had made during its undeserved, air-borne journey into the netherworld. I covered my mouth in shock and looked over at Colin who, of course, had witnessed the whole thing, and stood rooted in place. His face showed no hints of any recognizable emotion. “Well you just about kicked that poor toad into next week,” He said, in an unaffected matter-of-fact way. “Got a problem with toads in America?”“I…uh-” I fumbled, still trying to grasp what had happened. I could still feel the phantom effects of the toad’s little jelly body on the tip of my shoe. Colin let a small chuckle escape his straight-faced expression, and he shook his head.“Alright then Crawford-the-toad-kicker, let’s get you back.”And thus concluded my first day in Lockerbie. Certainly nothing I had expected it to be, but everything I didn’t know I needed it to be. A home cooked meal, a better understanding of the locations I had only come to know in archived documents, and friendship in a family that I felt like I had already known for years. It was only a few more days before I would arrive back in the States to my own family, but tonight, this security of finally being with other people was enough to send me into a much-needed slumber. ????? The next morning, I woke up to my alarm at 8 a.m. and quickly showered before I threw on the red dress that I hadn’t worn since Darcy’s dinner party. It felt like it was time to move-on from that night, and maybe wearing the dress again would help me to do so. I only shuddered a little bit when I inspected my Vans for toad guts in the morning light before putting those on, too. I repeatedly checked my phone and peaked out my bedroom window to peer into the street below. Before parting ways last night, Colin and I had agreed to meet outside the hotel at 9 a.m., so that we could continue on the list of things he had to show me. Today we would head to the memorial site for the 270 victims, otherwise known as the Garden of Remembrance. It was 9:03 a.m., maybe I was looking at the wrong street? My anxiety quickly got the best of me after conjuring this idea, and I quickly locked my room and ran down the creaking, wooden hallway that almost appeared to bend at each of my steps. I ran past the front desk, where an older woman with untamed curly hair was too busy doing clerical work to notice me, and searched the front street expectantly. Nope, no car. No Colin. Alright, back inside we go. I scurried back through the hefty oak doors, which looked like they could crush me to death should they ever fall off their hinges, past the lady, up the stairs, down the creaking hallway, and back into my room.I began to think perhaps my anxiety was stemming from what was to come and not what I was waiting for. I had read so much about the Garden of Remembrance and its significance not only to the townspeople, but to the friends and families of victims who made their pilgrimage to Lockerbie to mourn their loved ones. It was an emotional place—an important place. Again, I asked myself, if I really had any place being here at all. Am I wrong for coming? I grappled with this on my own in the enclosed wallpapered confines of the bedroom and tossed the room keys on the desk before shutting the door with a worried sigh. The queen bed rested innocently and cramped against the side of the wall, with its quilt haphazardly tossed on top. I sank onto its springs, bouncing up and down slightly while doing so. From the window, motion caught my eye and I noticed a car pulling up to the front of the hotel. I felt a sudden energy course my limbs back into action, and I quickly grabbed my jacket and backpack before shutting the bedroom door behind me with one last flourish of movement and bounded down the hallway, past the front desk woman who now peered at me skeptically, and out the door to the car. ?????Colin was all pleasantries and good humor on our drive to the garden, which was just what I needed to put my worries at ease. The day was bright, either because the sun was shining with enough force to penetrate the clouds, or because the chance for a break in the thinning blanket of gray was more imminent than before. I felt an indescribable hope move through me by the possibility of change in the weather.We drove about a mile outside of town to the Dryfesdale Cemetery. In the parking lot, there was a scattering of cars. There were no other people in sight as we made our way to the entrance. A small visitor’s center building stood to the right-hand side, peaceful and unobtrusive to the rest of the cemetery that it guarded. There were no man-made noises, but there were birds singing and chirping in indiscernible locations all over our heads, flitting from one pine tree to the next. “Sarah,” Colin said. “When we visit the memorial, I want you to know that the effects it has on everyone are different. I’ll explain what some of the carvings and monuments mean, but then I will leave you to yourself to visit and understand in whatever way you feel most comfortable.” I nodded silently in agreement. We embarked on a paved path into the cemetery, past gravestones and names that were unfamiliar to the passive observer. The path became enclosed by Cyprus-like trees on either side of us and curved to the right. Nestled into the trees, at the long end of pink, red, yellow and blue flower beds, stood the granite memorial. We approached slowly, and I felt my eyes rushing to absorb every flower petal, grass blade, and gray stone. The path diverged in two directions, with a patch of grass in the middle, that led to three small plaques that lay in front of three headstones. “The three plaques here are in memory of the Flannigan family. Do you remember our visit to Sherwood Crescent from yesterday?” Again, I nodded quietly. “The Flannigan family lived in one of the houses on that street. The mother and father, and one of their children were inside their home when the wings crashed into the neighborhood.” He explained to me their story. Kathleen and Thomas Flannigan had been at home preparing for Christmas with one their sons, Steven, and their young daughter, Joanne. The evening of the 21st, Steven had slipped out the door of his parent’s home to run next door to his neighbor’s. His mission was to assemble his sister’s surprise Christmas gift, a new bicycle. While working in his neighbor’s garage, unbeknown to him, Pan Am 103 exploded overhead. He would never return to his home, or his parents, or his sister. The destruction from the explosion caused by the plane’s wings would leave him and his brother, David, as the sole survivors of their family. Before us lay Kathleen, Thomas, and Joanne’s memorials—their names were carefully etched into the black stone. We moved a few steps up to the headstones.The largest of the three, while still small, stood in the middle, with the words “In remembrance of all victims of Lockerbie Air Disaster who died on December 21st, 1988” carved in black. The smaller headstones on either side listed 17 of the victims' names. I recognized two belonging to Syracuse students: Nicole Boulanger and Amy Gallagher. We moved up again.This time the path was separated by an even larger, round patch of grass, which conjoined the stone walkway again in front of the memorial itself. It was arranged as a triptych, listing every single victim’s name underneath the same title that had been carved into the center headstone. Colin looked at me with a slight nod, indicating his separation to a nearby bench, and I was left to read the names by myself.In the open solitude of this moment, the gravity of everything I had learned and witnessed up until this point unloaded on to me in a cacophony of silent pain. So many names, so many stories, so many people that should have had full happy existences in life. It wasn’t fair. And then my eyes fell on Rick’s name. Richard Paul Monetti. He was only 20 years old when he had died. Twenty. The whole thing was unjust. It was a cruel, Godless act and here I stood before these names as some unworthy observer. What right did I have to be alive and living the years that Rick never got the chance to? Why did I get to be a stupid 21-year-old who made mistakes, fell in love, cried over movies, and stayed out too late with her friends? What purpose did I have? And why wasn’t his purpose different than to be taken away like this?Rick was supposed to go back home for Christmas. He was supposed to graduate from college and get a job in sports journalism. He was supposed to be a successful reporter and find the love of his life just like he’d always romanticized in his journals. He was supposed to be all these things and more. He was supposed to be someone I would never know the name of unless I flipped to one of his bylines in the sports section of the paper.And the same could be said for any of the other 34 students or any of the names on the wall. It wasn’t supposed to be like this, right? This couldn’t be justifiable. How could these…these terrorists do something so deplorable and vain and conceited to rob these stories, these lives, these children and sisters and mothers and fathers and husbands away from the world? None of it made any sense. I felt a dark hollowness swallow me and ache the back of my throat until it felt like the hope inside of me had been nearly drained.These thoughts ran over themselves, tripping and screaming angrily in my mind, and I didn’t realize that I had been violently crying until Colin came over and led me to the bench he had just been occupying.“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” I remembered repeating this to him in guttural sobs that I couldn’t control, tears pouring out of my eyes in every inconsistent direction possible.“It’s alright…you just understand, you just understand,” he said softly, handing me a tissue from his pocket. We sat like that for an amount of time I couldn’t discern and waited for my crying to cease before either of us spoke again.“I’m…I’m really sorry, I don’t kn-know what came over me so suddenly,” I gasped between the few remaining sobs I had left in my chest. “You don’t need to apologize Sarah. This place has that effect on people.”“It just feels, feels so unfair,” I said, trying to steady my voice with each word.“It was unfair. Extremely so. And the pain of it never goes away,” he said solemnly. I noticed his gaze fall back upon the memorial and my eyes, still stained with tears, followed over, as well. “A lot of people refuse to talk about what happened even to this day—nearly 31 years later. But then there are some of us who recognize the only way we can ever try to heal is to tell our stories, if not for us…at least for them.” I reflected upon his words silently, he had said something similar to me last night, but now the gravity of their truth was clearer than it had been before. He continued.“If we don’t tell our stories, if I don’t tell my story, what happened here will be lost to the world. As hard as it is, what happened to Pan Am 103 has to be told. There has to be justice… they have to be remembered in any way possible.” “Is that why you invite so many people to stay with you?”“Partially yes, but partially because it helps them find their own way to heal, too.” A spot of sun began to break its way out of a thinner patch of clouds, and we felt the warmth on our faces as I nodded to his explanation. I admired him thoroughly, perhaps more than anyone else I had ever met that wasn’t of my own blood. After immense suffering, he would still welcome people from all over the world to his home, to retell the story over and over again. All in the hope that they could heal and find their peace. And here, here is where I could find hope again. This was a bud of strength and goodness that had grown where the outside world had deemed it impossible. The townspeople had all suffered and yet had I not experienced the most kindness while I had been here? Had they not welcomed me with open arms when it would be their right to shun me for coming with such intentions? Lockerbie itself had been branded with an infamous mark by the outside world. Yet, here it stood. Scarred, but recovering. Healing with the people in its churches, the gray stoned homes, and freshly painted storefronts. Recovering and healing.After one more deep breath, I told Colin I was ready to leave. We walked on the stone path, through the garden one last time. The sun’s light continued to strengthen against the dispersing clouds. By the time we had gotten to the car I could almost have fooled myself by believing that the sky would soon become completely full of sun.Then on the drive back to town it began to rain again.?????It was now late afternoon and Colin had a few more things for us to do before we would return back to the Dorrance home. We drove around the town and he pointed out a few historic buildings, including the ambulance station and town hall. The ambulance station had a small tree standing out front that had been planted for Suzanne Miazga. She had been found outside the side door of the old ambulance station. The paramedics who found her that night never forgot Suzanne, and they had planted the tree in her honor, even transplanting it to make the move with them to the new station.We then walked to a shop along the main street where I met a lovely, bubbly woman who seemed to know me before I could even learn her name. Scottish knick-knacks and flowery treasures lined the walls behind her. The entire shop was filled with older women eagerly picking out small handbags, or plush sheep. “Are you our Remembrance Scholar that’s visiting?” she asked excitedly, pulling me out by my shoulders for a quick inspection. Upon a confirming nod, I was then dragged in for a hug that rocked me from side-to-side, and I couldn’t help but laugh.“This is Margie, she’s owned this shop for about 30 years now. Isn’t it lovely?” Colin asked.“Yes, very,” I said, released from my hug and now slightly spinning from the shaking I had undergone. “I wish I could buy everything here!”“Aren’t you just the sweetest? I tell you what Colin, they always send the nicest kids, don’t they?” Margie cooed, returning with a bustle back to her post behind the counter.“Yes, they always find the best kids possible every year; it truly is remarkable,” he replied. I blushed at the undeserved praise. It didn’t feel warranted, and at the very least, it didn’t feel applicable to me.After a few more pleasantries exchanged between the old friends, Colin ushered me back into the streets and we took a calm walk back to the car and headed to his house. The radio was blasting some Top 100 summer hit, and with the car windows down, it almost felt like a completely different day than the one we had experienced earlier. What was it that people were always saying in order to cope with emotions they’d rather disassociate from? Ah, right. Life goes on. But not always for some. Not always.?????Back at the Dorrance household, things were relatively quiet, which seemed unexpected compared to the lively scene it had been the day before. Andy was already back at the country club for work, and Judith had run to the grocery store to fetch a few last-minute items for dinner. Colin gave me another brief house tour, this time in the newly renovated “man-cave” of his, which was a garage converted into a game room/media center. A big pool table stood in front of the entrance and to the immediate left was a projector and surround sound speaker system for the pleasure of any movie lover to enjoy as they sank into the brown leather couches that were pushed against the wall.I couldn’t help but laugh at Colin’s enthusiasm as he rushed around to each piece of audio equipment, enthusiastically explaining how he came to acquire each item and the technical ways in which it enhanced the quality of the sounds. It all was very forgettable to me, as much as I tried to learn about what he explained, but as no prior knowledge or passion for the technology existed within me, the best I could do was nod in agreement. Thankfully, I got a much-needed mental break for the rest of the afternoon when Colin offered me the coveted privilege of watching a few movies in the state-of-the-art movie theatre until Judith came home to prepare dinner.Once dinner had finished, the setting sun brought-forth a sharper cold than the day before, so our party transitioned more quickly indoors. We brought in the remaining plates to the kitchen and Colin offered up drinks for our now familiar party of four before we headed to the living room. The living room was decorated with a creamy white carpet and matching wall paint to give it an open and calm aesthetic. Along the walls were family pictures. If it weren’t for the accents flooding the room in continued chatter from our leftover dinner conversations, I would have suspected I could have been in any home in America. It was comforting, like I had visited this exact spot in a dream before. Maybe I was dreaming now? The thought occurred to me as I glanced over at Andy who was mid-laugh at a quick jab his father had thrown at him. I smiled, unaware of what was said, but completely absorbed in the moment regardless. No, no this was no dream, this was just the whiskey talking. My head spun around the room and I took in more of the surroundings; the vanilla scented candles on the end table, the curtains thinly veiling the street outside, the lamp resting unlit in the far-right corner. “So, we really never crossed paths when I was in Syracuse two years ago?” Andy said, calling my attention to him. “Maybe we did and just never noticed each other,” I replied, coolly. He chuckled lightly, and I sat in place with the cool exterior of a thrice-divorced woman who talked to men for sport and drank wine at two in the afternoon like it was water. “I highly doubt that’s true,” he said in a way that was so pointed it almost registered on the monitors of flirting. “Did you know any Remembrance Scholars from my year? It’s possible we had a friend in common.”“Well,” I thought, searching the receptacles of my mind for forgotten names and faces. “Oh, what about Jamie Hopkins? She actually helped give me advice during my application process.”“Jamie Hopkins!?” Andy exclaimed, excitedly sitting up a little bit and leaning closer by the instant recognition of his old friend. “I loved her! She used to bring me to all of the parties at the band house.”“Wait, you used to go to parties at the band house?”“Yeah, all the time. That was my absolute favorite house on campus to go to on the weekends.” “Holy shit, are you kidding me? I literally LIVE in the band house,” I cried back, also jumping forward, my legs bending underneath me on the couch, instantly matching his enthusiasm. We laughed at the fortune of discovering such a niche passion between us and rushed into questions, eagerly speaking on top of one another, about our experiences at the coveted red party house on the corner. It wasn’t long before we had determined that we’d both been to the same parties and made friends with the same people, but how we had never met was an answer neither of us had. I wasn’t sure how long we had continued on this way, but I had nearly forgotten that we weren’t the only people in the living room when Colin suddenly interjected Andy’s wild tale of a late night, or rather early morning, that I’m assuming only ended in a lot of vomit.“Sorry to interrupt the Syracuse stories, I was just checking to see if anyone wanted anything? Maybe, water?” He called from across the room, standing up from the leather brown chair he had been previously occupying the entire time I had been forgetfully spewing embarrassing college stories to his son.“No, no, I’m alright. I should actually get going, it’s getting pretty late,” I replied hastily, quickly standing up as if that could physically disrupt the embarrassment flooding my veins.“Ah, completely fine! I hadn’t even realized it was after midnight! Funny how time can get away from you,” he said with a quick glance at the wooden clock hanging delicately on the wall. “I’ll go get my shoes and I can walk you home.”I instantly opened my mouth to reject another escort home, especially now that I’d already done it once before. “I-”“It’s alright, Dad. I can walk her home.” It took every last one of my drunk and tired brain cells to resist the urge from whipping around in surprise when I heard Andy’s voice call out from behind me on the couch. I could sense him stand up, but I stood rooted to my place as Colin’s face quirked sideways in confusion. “That’s alright, I can walk her home,” Colin replied, with a slow-paced bafflement caked into his tone. “Nah, Dad, seriously! It’s late, you and Mum should get some sleep. You know I always stay up late anyways,” Andy persuaded again. “Oh, it’s fine, he does usually stay up till 3 anyway,” Judith finally exclaimed with a wave of the hand. “Just don’t stop at any bars on the way home. We know how long the walk takes there and back.” She winked at me with a small smile, and I blushed harder than anyone else has in the history of the world. And, no, that is not a dramatization.“Alright, alright. But if you do stop at a bar, don’t tell us, or I’ll be jealous,” Colin laughed in resignation. We said our goodnights, slipped on our shoes, and were out the front door within a minute.I still hadn’t quite processed why Andy had been so insistent on walking me back. I prepared to wage woman vs. self-war of not reading into its meaning too much as we set off for the King’s Head. Our pace was slow, but our discussion from the living room picked up quickly and the effect made me feel like we were running at a hundred miles per hour. I felt like I had suddenly stepped outdoors into my own alternate universe where I was the heroine of a coming-of-age indie movie. The wind, silk against my bare legs, delicately ruffled my dress around me as we crossed the now familiar bridge right on the edge of town.We laughed, I teased, he retorted, and we gained familiarity from the shared memories we had never made together. And soon, just like the effect his parents had had on me, I became cloaked in a sensation like I had once known him before in another life. His humor was dry and quick, just like the traits I’d always admired in Ronald. As we talked, the conversation faded away from Syracuse and into Andy’s life at the university in Glasgow. He was studying mathematics with the plans to pursue a career in the economics of the sports industry. Andy explained how he’d been a longtime soccer player, or football player as he teasingly reminded me, and had just made goalie on the school’s team the year before. Back at Syracuse, he’d tried out for the club team, but was rejected because the team discovered he was only a student for a year. When I tried to object to the unreasonableness of this decision, he assured me it was a blessing that gave way to a better opportunity through the intramural soccer team he joined instead. Andy’s optimism was not lost on me and I quickly learned of his ability to see the best in every situation—something that was never one of my strong suits. I’m not a cynic, but I definitely critique situations like I’m an 18-year-old jury member who just wants to go home already. During the course of our walk, my eyes had been steadily trained to the pavement in front of us, never disrupting the streamlined route, so it came as a bit of a shock when Andy announced we’d arrived at my hotel, and I looked up to see I had no idea where the Hell we were. The street ended abruptly with a fence to brace the cut-off of the road and on our right was a well-lit inn.“What’s this?” I said, my brows furrowed in bemusement. The warm, electric streetlamp cast shadows across our faces, but I could see his brow match mine in similar confusion.“What do you mean? It’s your hotel?”“No, it’s not,” I laughed. “I don’t even know what this place is!”“What? You’re staying at the Townhead? This is the Townhead!”“No, I’m staying at the KING’s Head.” I was now smothered in my own laughter, as he stood there, spinning from the entrance of the hotel and then back to me in sheer delirium as to how we had ended up here.“My God, we’re 15 minutes from the King’s Head. I’ve clear walked us to the other side of town,” Andy exclaimed, grasping at tufts of his curly black hair. “Well then we better start walking or your mom’s gonna think we actually did go to a bar,” I ordered with a small laugh as I dragged us away from my fake hotel.“Yeah, but what’s gonna be even worse is when I get in trouble for the drink I never got to have.” We quickened our steps now, chased by the fear of a parental phone call, like we were kids breaking curfew on a Saturday in high school. Soon, the King’s Head came into view, and we were at the front of the large oak doors that I had bounded out of earlier that day. A flick of movement out of the corner of my eye caused me to start and I spun around to the source, foolishly half-expecting to be mugged in the empty streets of the town where we had not seen another soul since we left the house. Instead, I was met with a horror character amounting to nothing more than a brown-striped cat who looked like it would be the one chased by a mouse, not vice versa. The teeny feline made its way across the street in a direct beeline for us and let out a meager meow in welcome as its head made contact with my ankles. As is instinct, an ‘awe’ escaped my lips and I instantly collapsed to the ground to pet our new companion. “Where the Hell did he come from?” Andy pondered quietly, bending down to the pavement as well. I accepted my role as the new object of attention for the cat and quickly sprawled out on the sidewalk, to which the cat responded by climbing into my lap and nestling down into the fabric of my dress. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one experiencing a case of mysterious former connections. Andy and I instantly looked up at each other in shock and cracked into soundless giggles. “Wow, believe me when I say this has never happened to me before,” I vouched. “This is the closest I’ve ever come to feeling like a real-life princess.” “Well, I’m not sure how you did it, but that cat absolutely loves you,” Andy said, reaching out a hand of friendship for the cat to accept. Upon receiving it, he scratched our mysterious feline friend on the ear and was thanked with a series of deep purrs. “I don’t think I’m allowed to get up until he decides I can, those are the rules,” I informed him, with a small smirk.“Well,” he replied, pulling out his phone. “In that case, let me take a photo to send to my mom, otherwise she’ll never believe me when I tell her what’s happened.” I grinned in agreement and posed with the cat by awkwardly pointing at its furry body, my head cocked to the side and my mouth slightly open to convey my excitement. Andy laughed and glanced at the photo once before sending it off to his mom with a reassuring text message that his delayed return wasn’t due to frisky business, only whisker-related ones.After another few pets, the cat had decided I’d fulfilled her needs and surely, but slowly pranced off my lap, freeing me from my confinement to the ground. Andy and I stood back up in unison, still marveling about the oddity of the past five-minutes.“Well, I guess I should probably get to bed. That’s the best this night is going to get,” I mused as the friendly feline continued to push its head up against my ankles and circle slowly around me. “Oh definitely, I certainly hadn’t expected this much of an adventure when I offered to walk you back,” he chuckled and for a moment we stood there, taking in the effects of this new friendship and the serendipity of a night created out of presumably average circumstances.I treasured the familiarity of talking to someone my age again after so many weeks of projecting a more mature version of myself to train conductors, museum guides, and restaurant wait-staff. I finally felt relaxed, with no need to pretend to be a person who was much wiser and put-together than I had tried to pretend like I was at the start of the summer. It was the first time since Belgium where I hadn’t ached for my friends back home. Perhaps our meeting was only meant to be a temporary friendship. After all, tomorrow was my last full day here, it wasn’t like much could develop past a bit more bonding over stories from college. True friendships among people take much more time and, well, proximity to be lasting. But the purpose for our meeting would not be lost on me. There was more to be learned from it, just not tonight. Not at two in the morning. “Just give me a second to find my keys for the front door then,” I said motioning at the oak door that towered above both of us as it stretched into the darkness cast by an unlit lamp. I reached into my coat pocket and felt around past an old empty mint wrapper, a hair tie, and train ticket stub. No metal to be found. I let out an apologetic chuckle as Andy watched me reach into my other coat pocket and feel around with the same result. “Probably just- probably just in my backpack,” I assured him as he raised his eyebrows at my frantic slump to the ground to rustle through my backpack pockets. Top zipper pouch has to have it. Nope, just a bunch of pens I took from work and, oh hey that’s where my student ID has been. Alright, well surely the front pocket has- nope. Oh God, okay let’s not panic, don’t show that you’re panicked. Just look up and smile and make it seem like you definitely, actually know where it is right now.“You lost your key didn’t you,” Andy said with a nonserious sigh, crossing his arms and leaning up against those dumb, taunting, locked oak doors. Despite my best efforts, I was now in full panic mode and maniacally dumping the contents out of every pocket onto the sidewalk. The cat, either bemused or indifferent, licked its paws next to me and flicked its eyes occasionally to a shiny object that would catch the light of the moon above us.“No. No, I never lose things. It goes against every basic character trait I have. I’m a planner, an organizer. I just put it in the wrong place,” I explained, sifting through my shame pile and forcefully stuffing anything that continued to disprove my point back into my bag until there was nothing left on the ground. “And that wrong place just might so happen to have been my hotel room. Which is…”“Which is locked inside like three other sets of doors that you need a key to open,” Andy chuckled, pulling out his phone and starting to turn away.“Wait, where are you going?” I scrambled back up to my feet, throwing my bag back onto my shoulders with such swiftness that it scared off our cat friend back across the street, or to whatever magical realm it had appeared from. “Well it’s not like we’re going to let you sleep on the street. Come on, I’ll call my mom and have her make-up the couch for you as we walk back.” And that’s how I spent 75 dollars for a Victorian-era hotel room with a queen-sized bed, and springs that could sever bone, that I never actually slept-in. The next morning, Colin took me back to those now infamous oak doors to help me check-out a day early, so that I could spend my last night at the Dorrance house instead.?????For my last full day in Lockerbie, Colin had arranged for me to meet two people who had agreed to share their stories from the night of the plane crash. The first was Josephine Donaldson. She arrived at the Dorrance household shortly after we had finished the breakfast that Judith had been so kind to make for me, the new renegade guest. It gave me just enough time to shower and change out of my dress, which I now wanted to punch myself for wearing, and into a much more comfortable ensemble of jeans and t-shirt. Josephine was an extremely classy woman, a pinnacle of elegance to contrast my much shabbier appearance. She called back an era where people would take pride in their public appearance, but not in a way that suggested she thought better of herself for it. Rather, the pastel color of her sweater, that matched a well-ironed skirt, and coiffed hair appeared to have been arranged out of personal commitment to herself rather than to any degree of vanity. Her countenance matched her appearance in a very similar sense. While soft spoken and polite, Josephine was also instantly warm and inquisitive to the health of mutual friends and news of any exciting developments in the Dorrance household. I liked her very much before I had even said more than a simple “hello.” By observing her delighted expressions and graceful hand gestures as she spoke, I had the feeling that anyone who had the pleasure of meeting her would have agreed with my sentiments.On the night of December 21st, shortly after impact, Josephine opened up the backdoor to the garden at her house and found a lone pocketbook, sitting upright before her. Amidst the confusion and distortion of the night, she had no way to make sense of the sight. When she opened it, she found the contents of a young lady’s belongings, with birthday cards written out in celebration of her 21st birthday. In the aftermath of the tragedy, as more information on the passengers, and the stories of the 35 Syracuse students who were lost, were released, Josephine discovered that the pocketbook belonged to Nicole Boulanger. Nicole had been a senior at Syracuse majoring in musical theatre. She had turned 21 while she was abroad in London only a few months earlier, on October 28th. As the town began to recover from the physical and emotional damages the bombing had caused, Josephine joined a group of women in the town who had decided to wash the clothing in the luggage recovered from the wreckage. They would later be called the “Women of Lockerbie,” after a play was written about their personal stories, but in that moment, they were anonymous contributors to something good amidst what felt like irreparable devastation. One day, Josephine opened the luggage to wash the clothing of a young woman, whose portfolio of art and photographs poured out in front of her. While recollecting these treasured pieces, Josephine discovered another set of 21st birthday cards. The luggage and the cards belonged to Syracuse student Amy Elizabeth Shapiro, who had also celebrated her birthday with Nicole on October 28th. From that day forward, Josephine told me, Amy and Nicole became her two girls. She put anonymously signed birthday cards in with each of their belongings before they were sent back to their parents. She said that if she had lost her son overseas, she would want to know that someone cared—that someone was looking out for her child. So, she did what she could to care for Amy and Nicole without want of recognition, or praise, but out of memory for their own lives and out of respect for the families and friends they left behind. Every year on their birthday, Josephine said that she returns to the Dryfesdale Cemetery to leave flowers at the memorial for them. Josephine’s story, one of true, human compassion made me realize the good that could come out of tragedy—that in the darkest of hours, there was still love and kindness, even between strangers who would never have the chance to meet. What she did for “her two girls” defied everything that could have been expected of her during the night of the bombing and in the weeks after. It made me wonder, could I honestly have expected myself to do the same? To act in anonymity, motivated by pure empathy for families that I had never met? Anyone faced with this question would like to say that they would, but I don’t think it’s something we could comprehend until faced with the situation. Josephine’s actions gave me hope that a majority of us would have done the same in a heartbeat. Maybe empathy didn’t have to be forged solely in our common experiences, but could just exist through a shared sense of pain, grief, and loss. And, as humans, maybe it was possible for all of us to instinctively care for others when the world around us burned. Josephine’s story certainly made me think so.?????In the afternoon, Colin took me back to the train station, which I had arrived at seemingly ages ago, to purchase my return ticket to London for the next day. The clerk’s rosy cheeks were flushed with cheeriness as Colin explained to her my adventure to Lockerbie and my connection to Syracuse University. Her acrylic nails clacked against the keyboard as she giggled and asked me questions about America until she’d found me the cheapest ticket back to the city. It was so surreal that I should end my trip in this town—after nearly four months of navigating the dichotomy of French and American relationships and the attitudes of the people I’d met in Brussels. I was beginning to think even the people back at home couldn’t compare to the hospitality and amiability of the people I’d met here. I’d thought I’d been so ready to return home, but Lockerbie made me feel like I’d found the comfort of acceptance and companionship that nurtures a soul in want of being understood. Now, here I was with a ticket in hand ready to let go again and start the journey over.As we walked back to Colin’s car, we passed the town hall and decided that we should go inside to see the stained-glass window I’d always heard about. On the second floor, in a side room that faced out into the street below, we accidentally interrupted a small gathering of older women who had gathered for their weekly crafts time together. Knitting needles were strewn about on a mismatch of plastic and wooden tables, and chatter was hardly interrupted when we stepped inside the 70s styled room. It bore the same aesthetic as the Sunday school classroom buildings at the church I used to go to as a kid: orange carpeting, wooden panels on the wall and cream-colored accents to highlight the collection of furniture strewn about. On the far wall, spanning a huge portion of its space, were six panels of stained glass that I’d always seen photographs of: “Lockerbie Reflections.” The stained glass depicted 21 flags from the nations of the victims on board Pan Am 103. The flags spanned out from poles in either direction, seemingly in mid-breeze and stretching out enough to recognize the markings and colors of someone’s home country. As the afternoon light lit up the reds, blues, yellows and greens, a glimmer cast itself over my face and I could feel my eyes beginning to fill with tears like they had at the memorial the day before. The room was so peaceful soaked in this light, but the visualization of every country affected by the terrorist act displayed above me was hard to stomach even amongst the beauty of the sunshine. If Rick were to have seen this, I believed he would have pulled out a piece of paper and immediately sketched out his thoughts on the transcendence of nationality in death. Certainly, he would have been able to offer some inspirational remark about the carpe diem of life in the midst of tragedy. But I found myself struggling to even piece together any words at all, even though I was still blessed with the ability to do so. We said goodbye to the ladies, many of whom were knitting and chatting in perfect serenity, and journeyed back to the Dorrance house for the last time. I felt every ounce of my introversion making claims for my mind and it was difficult to find the attention necessary to hold proper conversation. I excused myself to repack my suitcase before my flight home the next day and sat down in the spare room, slumped against the carpet, with the agitation of a survivor’s guilt that didn’t make complete sense to me. Rick wrote every single day, filling journals with his words and ideas even if he didn’t think that they were worth sharing with others. But sitting at an empty table in the archives of the library, reading his daily updates about a girl he was in love with, or the skiing trip he’d been on with his friends were how I’d gotten to know him best. Who knew where that talent and creativity could have led him if he had only been given more time? Someone with the discipline to write nearly every day deserved to be appreciated for their dedication.And then there was me, who had already been granted an extra three years of life and I nearly had a mental breakdown every time I opened my laptop to put thoughts to paper. This isn’t the way that I wanted to waste my time on this Earth. Like Rick, writing was the thing that I felt good at. It used to be fun, it used to be the thing I rushed home to do whenever I had an idea for a story. Why did I let critics and judgement from other people ruin that passion? How did Rick learn to overcome that fear of self-failure? Maybe, the answer was that he just knew how to write for himself instead of worrying about others' opinions. Easier said than done, but if I knew anything from these past few days, Hell, if I learned anything about this past summer, it was that I had to stop weighing my life on the way other people felt about me. If I could just live for the here and now, like Rick tried to do every day, maybe it could translate to my writing, too. ?????I’d settled into my last night in Lockerbie by watching movies with the Dorrance’s and listening to more of their family stories. Behind the chorus of jokes, I felt a bitter sting in my throat at the thought of having to leave them the next day. It felt impossible to go back to the States after having gotten so close to this family and the knowledge that I would likely not see them again, or at least not in the foreseeable future. But under my recent promise to Rick, I smothered the idea with the presence of what was around me rather than worrying about the future like I’d always had an inclination to do. When Colin and Judith decided to go to bed, I was mid-conversation with Andy, engaging him in a not entirely exaggerated story about a friend who had broken an entire ceiling light panel in the science department. It was only half past eleven and the adrenaline of my last night abroad had pushed sleep far out of the realm of necessity. I was hesitant to abide by my host's decision to go to sleep, but I noticed that Andy stayed rooted to his place on the couch.“I’m gonna stay up for a bit, actually. You know I don’t ever get tired till 3 anyway,” he called out before I had time to assess the situation at hand. My head swiveled from Colin’s suddenly raised eyebrows and back to Andy’s face as my brain threw panicked exclamation points against my head to figure out what I was expected to do. “You can hang out here a bit longer if you want?” He offered to me quietly and I grabbed onto this suggestion like I was drowning in a pool and had finally been thrown a lifesaver. “Yeah, I guess I’m not that tired yet,” I said with a shrug. Now Colin’s eyes flitted between the two of us and I smiled with general innocence to quiet any concerns that he might be contemplating.“Alright, goodnight you two. Sarah, do you think you can be ready by 8 tomorrow so we can drive you to the train station?”“Yes of course, Mr. Dorrance,” I replied with as much assurance as I could, the embarrassment of my previous irresponsibility with the hotel key heavy on my mind. Andy wished them goodnight as well and we were alone again. I felt like our previous night’s escapade had left little room for awkward small talk between us. Bonds through shared experiences do tend to lend themselves to strong relationships and I felt certain that if he had been a permanent fixture of Syracuse, we’d have been the best of friends by December. I was still sitting on the carpeted floor of the renovated movie den that I had seen on the first night, but in the dimness cast by the overhead lights that had been set to low, the spacious room gave a more intimate feeling. It was the same sensation you’d get on the bus ride home after a long school trip, when half of the class was asleep, but those that stayed awake had the comfort of the dark road ahead to cast their secrets into as they talked to their friend in hushed, contemplative tones, revealing things more clearly than could ever be seen in the light of day. Why was it that conversations in the dark always made us feel the most exposed? I’m not sure how long we talked, but somehow we ended up pulling out his old high school yearbook when I became entirely convinced that a “prefect” was a fictional role (side note, it is very much real in the Scottish school system). I made fun of his dorky photos and in true competitive spirit, outdid each other with one ridiculous story after another. One idea was a breeding ground for five stories and five stories paved the way to a movie reference which opened the doors to eight opinions until we had built an entire world around ourselves. Immersed in our shared thoughts and dreams of possibilities fueled by youth, I felt like I really did have no worries about the next day. “It has been really awesome having you here the past few days,” Andy professed in a quiet tone that was so jarring to our previously loud babbling. “I think these past few days have been the best ones of my entire summer,” I admitted to him as I reflected upon every friendship and experience the past four months had given me. I’d never felt so completely imaginary while soaked in the sensation of being alive. “It’s gonna be really weird to say goodbye to you tomorrow, my whole family has just really loved getting to know you.” God, did you have to remind me that I’m leaving? And did I just detect, actually sadness in your voice?“The feeling is certainly mutual,” I replied with a laugh. “I hope that we’ll all be able to stay in-touch, especially when I start Remembrance Scholar stuff in the fall.”“Without a doubt, you’ll always be welcomed back to visit, too,” he assured me in a soothing tone that I didn’t associate with his typical humorous expressions. Yeah, I’m sure I’ll be able to financially afford a trip here in oh, say another 21 years?But in the whims and admissions of final goodbyes how can you address reality? Maybe it was better to pretend like Jane Austen was in charge of my story and happy endings could exist outside of the final pages of a book. Nevertheless, it was better to cloak the truth in a blanket of idealism and smile back with the temporary belief that friendships don’t age with distance. “I should probably go to bed. I do have to be up and in the car in four hours.” I could barely stifle a yawn as I spoke.“Right, I can probably come see you off at the train station with my dad?” “I would really like that.” Our smiles contagiously transfixed our expressions for a few moments, and I savored the feeling of teenage excitement against my logical, adult decision to go to bed. By the time I was in bed, fighting the urge to drift-off to sleep into a morning that would be the end of a monumental chapter of my life, I couldn’t help but wonder if that adult decision was really the best move after all. ?????The morning was a bustle of movement and talking and excitement as we rushed to throw my luggage into the car and drive to Carlisle to make my train on time. The ticket lady hadn’t told me that the cheapest option was leaving out of a station that was thirty minutes away. I had woken up after just three hours of sleep out of the sudden realization that I had no proper way to thank the Dorrance’s for the hospitality they had been so gracious to give me, a former stranger, during my stay. I had no money left, not that I thought they would accept any, and it wasn’t like I could walk into town at 6:30 in the morning and buy a bottle of wine if I did. So, I opted for the only valuable thing I had to offer in thanks for their home cooked meals, place to stay, and feeling of family: a one-page handwritten note ripped out of the pages of my notebook to express how the trip had changed me for the better. I was not the first Syracuse student to have visited Lockerbie, and I knew that I wouldn’t be the last to meet and connect with the Dorrance’s. It would take a psychopath to be unable to do so. But that was the thing that I had come to understand on my visit, every person’s experience was unique from the last. We had all come with our own baggage, insecurities, and reasons for wanting to find acceptance within tragedy. Nobody’s purpose was alike, but the kindness we found in the people of Lockerbie was universal in our understanding of human emotions. We grieved together, we laughed together, and we healed together even in the few short days we had to do so. Like Colin had told me on my second day, talking with others about our lives was the best way to grow from our pain and empathize with each other. And I’d never seen greater empathy and strength than in the people I’d met while I was here.I wasn’t the first Syracuse student to visit Lockerbie and I wasn’t the first person to hear Colin, or Josephine’s stories. I don’t want to be and, even more so, I don’t want to be the last. While bearing the internal conflict of writing something meaningful, I grasped at the true significance of Rick’s writings. Nothing I wrote needed to be verbosely figurative and grand. It didn’t need to move mountains, or create rainstorms in the desert. It just needed to matter to someone, one person. And if I could share these stories, or do my part in some way of making sure that the actions and heart of the people of Lockerbie, or the wisdom of Rick, was never forgotten then I would’ve accomplished more than I ever could by dying with their stories existing only within my head. Because even if their stories were to help one person, to find acceptance with themselves, or find company in isolation, then that’s all a writer could ever hope for. Academia had clogged my mind with searching an entire continent, spending an entire summer, looking for success and acceptance for words that I couldn’t write. I was chasing accolades that were never mine to begin with. The pressures of my studies, the reminders of deadlines and expectations of a boardroom full of director’s judging my talent in exchange for grants? It didn’t matter. What mattered were the people. The people who had not let judgement, or hardship stop them from doing what was right in order to make the world a better place. I admired them because I knew that I could never act half as selflessly as they did, but their stories were a testament to good within human existence even in the midst of tragedy. They encouraged me to be a better person, just like Rick encouraged me to be a better writer. I finally felt purpose—to use my skills as portals of devotion and sacrifice and humanity in the shared experience of what it meant to live. There was good chaos and bad years, there was friendship and heartbreak, but all of it has been felt before and would be felt again. So, I left the Dorrance's my note neatly folded on the pillow with little other trace of me ever having existed in the room at all. My suitcase was in the trunk of the car, my backpack was slung onto my shoulders and Andy and Colin were waiting by the front door. Judith wrapped me in a big hug and wished me safe travels, and I promised to let her know when I had arrived in London safely. The car ride was thirty minutes, but it was thirty minutes too fast and before I knew it, we were taking my luggage back out of the car in the parking lot of Carlisle’s train station. Unlike in Lockerbie, the station was bustling with people walking to their cars or running in the entrance. Families were pushing strollers and tugging stubborn toddlers, and businessmen were chatting hurriedly into phone conversations that I would never hear the other side of. Life was bustling and real and my time to enter back into reality had come. The station was just as busy inside as the parking lot had been. It was much bigger and, for one thing, actually enclosed by a structure unlike the open-air station in Lockerbie. Multiple platforms lined the way in front of us and we made our way to the one that was marked with the number five. I could feel that familiar ache creeping into the back of my throat, like I was fighting a childhood urge to cry after being dropped off at daycare, or after accidentally falling on the playground. I never liked change, but I hated endings even more. “You have your ticket, right? You didn’t lose it?” Colin asked and while I knew it was a slight about my history in losing important objects, I smiled at the notes of fatherly concern all the same. “Yes, I promise!” I reached into my pocket to prove him wrong and then looked up with fear painted across my face, as I frantically reached into the other one. Realizing what was happening, Andy and Colin exchanged equal glances of apprehension. Knowing that I’d successfully played jokester one last time, I then brandished my ticket from my right pocket with a smug smile on my face as I triumphantly waved it in front of me. “Of course, I’ve got it. I’m responsible!”“Alright, maybe we won’t miss you so much after all,” Colin said as Andy scoffed in laughter. Colin merely shook his head, a small smile betraying his pretend resentment. The train arrived at 9 o’clock sharp, the first time the reliability of the UK’s transport system had pissed me off. If this were Amtrak, I’d have about four more “unforeseen delays” to say my goodbyes. But I don’t think there could’ve been enough train delays in the world for me to be ready to leave. I don’t think there’s ever such a thing as a perfect goodbye with those you care about.As the train pulled out of the station, Colin and Andy waved goodbye to me and passed words amongst each other that prompted laughter from each and I felt myself laughing out of sheer happiness for them. How could I ever have been afraid of what the people of Lockerbie would think of me? I should’ve been afraid of how much I would love them. Soon they were fully out of sight, and my imagination was all I had left to keep me company. I was on my own again, back on another form of transportation through the countryside that blurred together and somehow, I felt the presence of loneliness stronger and harder than ever before. I began to think I’d had an easier time departing from JFK all those months ago. It was hard to believe how much of the unknown had stretched before me then, and how much I had been changed because of it.Perhaps it was the sheer exhaustion from my lack of sleep, or the ache of a lonely heart left to bear the weight of a summer journey now complete, but before I knew it tears were chasing their way down my cheeks and I broke into sobs. Oh, to be an American traveling on a train in Scotland. This thought interrupted my self-pity at the sheer ridiculousness of my appearance to the other passengers casting glances in my direction and soon my sobs were broken with heaves of quiet laughter. And I sat like that, cackling and crying and sniffling and snorting in a cacophony of deliriousness for at least ten minutes before, to the relief of everyone around me, I finally fell asleep. Oh, to feel the depth of all things wonderful and terrible as one person alive in the world.Chapter 9: Arrivals, Once MoreArriving back in the States was an unpredicted culture shock for my new reality. Gone were the days spent surrounded by multiple accents and languages different from my own. Now it was just the familiar inflections and tones in an airport in America where life was a race against the clock. I hadn’t slept at all during the 8-hour flight home, something that rarely occurred when I flew. This time, there was no Carter next to me to offer me drinks and chat about his fraternity. Although, regrettably, even Carter had occupied a small piece of my mind as I lamented over the ending to my summer. If he had been on the plane next to me, I probably would have looked him right in the eye and said, “Yes, Carter. Let’s do it, drinks on me.” What a far cry from my attitude towards him in May. Who would’ve guessed Carter would be someone I missed? I had dug a trench so deep in the forms of self-pity that I convinced my mind I was excused as a participant from the world below, which consequently did not go away when we landed and it was discovered that, yes, I was very much still a participating member of society on Earth. Which meant getting off the plane and facing the problems that I had carried with me as an extra suitcase the entire summer. How had I thought myself so ambitious and academically driven for something I never had the ability to achieve? In and amongst my own fantasies, I’d been in love with a version of myself that I thought was the ideal for future success and happiness. But she was about as interested in me as it turned out Mary Crawford was to Edmund Bertram. The most beneficial part of my sleepless flight was that I’d finally finished Mansfield Park. Like in all good Jane Austen novels, the marriage plot succeeded, and the right girl found her affections returned by the man she’d loved. I’d scoffed at the idea that Fanny Price could have been like me in any form, but in the last few pages of the book I’d surrendered in the truth that we were the same. Once an insecure and unobtrusive shadow in the influence of her own plot line, Fanny had found strength in the traits she possessed and learned to place convictions in the woman that she was. In Fanny’s case, that was rewarded in the final embrace of her dear Edmund, hers at last. But for me? There was no romantic interest I could run to at the end of my own journey. Or, so I had thought. My “Edmund” wasn’t another person. It wasn’t Mitchell, or Ronald, or Carter, or Andy. It was the acceptance for myself that I’d been running from since the very beginning. I was not a hard-hitting journalist ready to revolutionize the industry, or a whimsical Victorian writer who enchanted her readers with words. Because those were two-dimensional dreams of a girl who would always be stuck in a three-dimensional reality. So yes, I had failed. I had failed to do what I had set-out to accomplish that summer and live up to the expectations I had created for myself. But I realized that what I had gained instead had far surpassed anything that my mind could have tried to foresee. I had failed a daydream and woken up in reality. I was three dimensional. In all my flaws and weaknesses, I had accepted my own worth for being imperfectly complex. And an imperfectly complex person deserved a chance at an imperfectly complex expectation of herself. I was not a genius journalist and as a result never did half of the interviews I had thought I would. But I was good at friendship, and through these relationships, I had been gifted with everything I could have ever wanted to know. I was also not my writing hero, Jane Austen. But I did know my heart, and through passion and care in whatever I would write, it would be enough to enchant me. Rick Monetti, how wise you were to know so much about self-acceptance of our writing. So, in my imperfectly complex reality, I felt like I had succeeded. The entire summer I’d found people who had changed me for the better. The humor of Ronald, the carefree nature of Carter, the empathy of Josephine, and the strength of Colin. And through Rick, I’d found words to live by:Don't sit back, make the most of everything. Do all you can while you can. Life is a one-time deal.He’d once scrawled in haphazard ink at the bottom of his journal; “Why do I write these? Who’s even going to read and care about this in 30 years?” It was now 31 years since the bombing of Pan Am 103 and I still cared, I cared about every word he took to write every day because it was how I had gotten to know who he was. His perspectives, his words, were what I needed to not feel alone and defeated. I had nothing to write about from the original outlines of a senior thesis. But what I had was a jumbling of puzzle pieces in the shape of memories and relationships. Now it was time to put them together. I had finally begun to love myself and, on days where I had doubts, I could feel Rick beside me encouraging me with his journals of advice and opinions on life. I exited the arrivals gates and saw my mom waiting for me. Nine months until I became an alumnus. Nine months to write. Nine months to make sense of a summer of failure and success. But who would want to read about this? Who would care? The answer was that I would. I would, because these were stories of people who deserved to be known and remembered. So, when the last sentence had been written and the final period had been placed, I knew it would have become a story that I liked, and hopefully, one that Rick liked, too. The End. Works CitedAusten, Jane. Mansfield Park. Thomas Egerton, 1814.Donaldson, Josephine. Interview. Aug. 2019.Dorrance, Colin. Interview. Aug. 2019.Monetti, Richard Paul. “What I've Learned in 20 Years.” Richard Paul Monetti Family Papers.“Pan Am Flight 103 Fast Facts.” CNN, Turner Broadcasting System, Inc., 9 Dec. 2019, 2013/09/26/world/pan-am-flight-103-fast-facts/index.html. Accessed 24 Mar. 2020.“Richard Paul Monetti Family Papers.” Syracuse University Pan Am Flight 103 Lockerbie Air Disaster Archives, library.syr.edu/digital/guides_pa103/html/pa103_monetti_rp.htm. Accessed 1 Feb. 2020.“Victims: Kathleen Mary, Thomas Brown, and Joanne Flannigan.” Pan Am Flight 103/Lockerbie Air Disaster Archives,panam103.syr.edu/victims/pa103_v_flannigan_family.php. Accessed 18 Apr. 2020. ................
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