I bought a coffee, then settled in,
and the ferry left port not too much later. It rocked more than I was expecting
it to. Then again, it IS the Irish Sea. I read some. Slept some, when I
realized that other people were sprawling on the sofa-like seats and doing so
too. I once asked the older couple just down from me if they might watch my bag
while I went to the toilet. Toilet. I still have to consciously make myself use
that word instead of “bathroom.” They weren’t impolite, but I don’t know that they
were thrilled to have been bothered.
I decided to eat lunch on the
ferry, since I wasn’t sure I would have much time to grab food anywhere else along
the way. The ferry was scheduled to dock at 11:30 a.m., so at 11:00 I made my
way back over to the café (slightly more difficult this time because of the
rocking—I felt like a drunk when I had to clutch the edge of the counter just to
keep from falling over as I ordered). I stumbled back to my seat with my tray
of a packaged ham and cheese sandwich, fruit Danish, and Coke, giving prayers
of thanksgiving to heaven that I have never in my life gotten seasick. I know
some people who might not have been faring too well by that point. I finished
eating just before we docked.
I picked up my things, took the
lift back down to the lower level, and walked down the gangway with everyone
else, emerging at a terminal. People seemed to be moving toward a large set of
glass doors leading outside, and I thought I had glimpsed on a sign somewhere
that a shuttle would come to take us to the baggage claim area, so I moved
toward it and asked a man in a neon green vest if this was the case. He
confirmed, and said the shuttle should be arriving in five minutes. I stood out
in the wind and watched a rather backpacker-type-looking European couple who
seemed to be in their early thirties or so. They stood close together and
talked softly. She removed an eyelash from his cheek. He brushed a wisp of hair
away from her eyes and kissed her forehead. Something flipped over uncomfortably
in my chest and I looked away.
The shuttle arrived about TEN
minutes later and we all piled inside. I hoped I would have time to make my
first train, which was supposed to leave at 12:32. A woman with a small,
wiry-haired Jack Russell in a carrier bag sat across from me. I tried to fit my
carry-on bag between my knees and ended up looking like I was very awkwardly
straddling it, but before I could readjust, people sat down on either side of
me and I could no longer move. So that was how the shuttle ride went.
We pulled up outside a building and
unsquished off the shuttle. I glanced up and realized that the red letters
above the door said something about Wales. Freaking Wales?! Was I in Wales? Really? Mental note to check that on a map
sometime.
I entered the door and immediately
began scanning the baggage claim belts. I glanced over to the side and saw a
dark red bag on the floor. I approached it. Yep. The one dumped unceremoniously
facedown on the ground was mine. I picked it up and headed for the exit, when I
realized that there were two officers standing on either side of the doorway
and people were either pulling out their passports or little cards. I pulled
out my passport as quickly as I could and handed it to the woman I first came
to. I was hoping to get the other one. Her face looked kinder. But I handed it
dutifully to the harder-faced woman and waited. She looked at me, comparing me
to my passport photo (which looks absolutely nothing like me anymore—the
short-haired brunette in the photo probably didn’t look even remotely related
to the girl with shoulder-length blonde hair and glasses standing in front of
her).
“How long will you be here?” she
said in a very tight and proper British accent.
“Uhh… two weeks,” I stammered. Something
about having to think of answers to important questions on the spot always makes
me nervous. And after I answered her, I realized my answer wasn’t even true
because I’d be in the UK another eight weeks, total. Dumb.
“What are you doing here?” she
grilled farther.
“Uhm, tourism,” I replied quickly
with the generic answer they say you should always give to avoid having to
answer more complicated questions.
“Where are you going?”
“I’ll be at Capernwray Bible School
for two weeks—I’m actually studying at Oxford in a few weeks—but I’m staying in
the north first—“ Digging a hole and getting nowhere. And probably making
absolutely no sense.
“Do you have paperwork for that?”
Paperwork. Paperwork? Suddenly, the
synapses started firing correctly again.
“I have an immigration letter,” I
blurted.
“Right, let’s just see that, then,”
she said brusquely. I begin to dig rather awkwardly through the folder in my
bag sitting on top of the carry-on.
“D’you want to just step over here
and look for it? Just give me a shout when you’ve got it.” I obliged, even
though she still held my passport in her hand and something about walking away
from it never sits well with me. I had to extract almost every single paper
from the folder, but I finally found the letter and held it up. She saw me out
of the corner of her eye and came over to look at it. Her eyes narrowed and she
scanned the paper. My insides turned over. Were the dates right? Since the
program didn’t start for another three weeks, was it going to be enough to get
me into the country already? What if I couldn’t get through? I’d miss my train.
Where would I stay? What if they refused to let me in? My thoughts started
racing through various worst-case scenarios.
(To be continued...)
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