When Travel Turns into a Test of Stamina

[Courtesy of X: a black student separated from white students]

Finally, the visa is stamped and ready. I should be floating with excitement. Instead, I am bracing myself. Because I know what comes next.

Airports are no longer gateways to wonder. They are obstacle courses. Security checks that feel like military training. Some places are just shy of asking you to strip so they can check the bones in your body.

Once, in a European city, I was demeaned to the point of having my few dollars counted note by note while the officer rattled off questions in French. I know zero French. Meanwhile, my suitcase sat on the conveyor belt, flagged because no one was claiming it. By the time my money was counted and the interrogation ended, it was time to open my bag and parade every piece of clothing I owned. Every inch examined. Then came the struggle to pack it back without the “sit on it” trick I had perfected at home.

I made it out, found a taxi, and discovered we had no common language. I am sure the driver took the long route, it felt more like mirage looking through the window rather than more mileage to add some dollars.  More dollars gone, patience gone. 

Washa tu! 

2 weeks off! different experiences. Done! 

Summer or harsh winter. Some days were long, others short. I was friendly with my watch. 

And then there was Heathrow. 

The security check was out of this world. It felt as if my colour had betrayed me. A heavily built lady squeezed my body like a tennis ball that needed constant knocking. Why? No answer. Just the clock ticking. I was delayed so much I became the last passenger to board. 

The stares from fellow travellers seemed to ask, “Does she even know where she is going?”

Yes, the takeoff still has a spark. The hum of engines, the rush of lift-off, the clouds brushing past the window. But the return flight is different. It is the longest, heaviest part of the trip. Every bump feels bumpier. Every hour feels longer. You count down not to arrival, but to baggage claim, to passport control, to finally shutting your own door behind you.

Some trips are so short it feels like you have barely inhaled the new air before you are breathing recycled cabin air again. It leaves you wondering whether the journey was worth the toll.

I still love the idea of seeing the world. But these days, I long for travel that lets me arrive, not just pass through.

And maybe, just maybe, one day, that lost magic will find me again at a departure gate, smiling like an old friend, ticket in hand.

[Home is the best place]