This past weekend I flew home to Houston for Christmas.
I was standing in fron to fthe elevator bay after landing in IAH, and a brief thought troubled me: This feels weird. Why does this feel weird?

IAH is home. IAH is a gateway to being in a city that brings me joy. But Christmas Eve it felt off.
Then I realized, the last time I had flown into Bush Intercontinental was in the last days of May 2015, coming home from Spain.

Having to leave where my heart calls home was hard enough. The flight situation made it worse.

The night before leaving Spain, I was told I had to go from two 70lbs bags to two 50lbs bags, dropping 40lbs of luggage weight.
So, I left almost all of the winter clothes I owned in Madrid.
The next morning, after seeing Trinh off to work (who took the above photo), I taxied to the airport, where I found out I only had approval for ONE 50lbs bag.
That’s a 90lbs difference in luggage going to to coming from.
After an hour of trying to figure out what to do with an entire suitcase full of things

• I couldn’t pay to check it into the flight
• I had lost my debit card… AGAIN
• I couldn’t leave it at the airport, ahem, BOMB THREAT
• I couldn’t get a hold of my Dad  and I couldn’t make the international phone call to get a hold of my mom for them to pay for it (I later found out my dad had ruined his phone in the pool the day before)
• No one in Madrid could come get it

 

I was about to miss my very, very expensive flight and have no way to get home because my dad had neglected to tell me about the changes in what I could check on my flight. I had a huge anxiety attack, only for the women at the check-in counter to waive my bag fee at the last minute, because they’d already scheduled to hold the flight for me so I could get through security. They were not pleased.

Here is the moment I decided I’d never pack anything more that a single 50lbs bag for any international trip ever again.

With that tiny bit of relief after an hour of crying and calling and panicking, I loaded onto an American Airlines flight.
If you’ve traveled you know this is the part where the story normally gets bad.

American is NOTORIOUS for being a shit carrier, and this day they upheld their reputation. Because of a neglected repair needed on the plane, we sat at the gate for hours. The flight I had had a near mental breakdown over maybe missing was set to fly out at 11:15. We lifted off sometime after two that afternoon, all because of a tiny repair that was finished in 30 minutes, but the flight still needed clearance to take off from the home office in the US (who were not keen on responding quickly).
Did I mention an entire American high school choir was on the flight and I was randomly on a row alone in the middle of all of them? Because I was.

Thankfully, the only real respite this day, I slept the whole flight across the Atlantic. The anxiety attack had exhausted me.

Touching down in Miami was fine, the passengers formed a line and waited to be shuffled through customs. After a few minutes of being in line, airport workers were eagerly looking for someone, who turned out to be me.
Because of the HUGE delay, I was on a very short time frame to get to my next flight. A seven hour layover had become a less-than-three-hours one.
They handed me a boarding pass for the next leg so I didn’t waste time going to get it. They, too, were flustered.

Then I waited. And waited.

 

And waited. In line for so, so long in a queue of people, like cows being corralled for sale or branding.
After maybe an hour, my passport was glanced at, and I was waived to the next part of the process by a man in a police-style uniform who didn’t even really look at me. I realized I’d been in the line for a hot minute, and asked a worker what time it was. Oh, six something. I would later read on my boarding pass that my flight boarded at 6:10 , but at this moment I just knew I’d be cutting it close.
Then I stood. And stood, and put my carry ons through the conveyor belt, and stood some more, and I walked through the body scanner, then headed to ANOTHER line, where I stood again to be checked back into the US. Some nice security guard checked my passport again and welcomed me home. A sliver of warmth in my heavily taxing day.

Time was ticking. I was sweating terribly from the huge, heavy carry ons I was lugging around, but also from stress.
I picked up my two 50lbs suitcases, and nearly crying, asked airport workers how to get to my flight. The pointed me to where I needed to check my bags for the American leg of my trip home.

Checking my bags was another line, and another series of this-way-and-that-way directions. BUT there were playful Cuban accented guys taking the bags, and we jested for a moment about my sandals (the alpargatas from Casa de Hernanz).

Finally, I entered into the terminals. I had maybe 10 minutes before my flight took off (later, in clarity, I’d realize my plane was probably already taxiing on the tarmac at this point) and half an airport to get through.

I don’t know if you’ve ever been to the Miami airport, but it’s the size of a small city.
I also had to find which terminal was right in this VERY big airport, with two stuffed carry ons, neither of which rolled, on incredibly tired, sore shoulders. With very frayed nerves. I went to TWO wrong terminals before I found the right one, fifteen minutes after my flight had lifted off.

I cried harder in public than I had in years (I AM NOT a crier, and this was incredibly frustrating and shameful, and it just added to how terrible I felt.)
I went to American Air customer services, and after the desk worker coldly asked why I’d missed my flight, she accepted my reason with raised eyebrows and a bit more warmth.

A sweet little Polish dad that was in customer service stopped to ask if I’d be okay afterward.

And then I finally got to my gate, I changed in the bathroom out of my sweaty clothes into fresh ones from my carry on. I asked a mom at my gate if I could borrow her phone to call my parents (I had a Spanish phone that was no use in the states). No answer. I texted my parents. No answer.
I assumed they’d find out my flight was delayed on their own. My dad tracks that stuff on his phone (remember, I later found out it was broken. Mom’s was dead).
I slept hard on that flight from Miami to Houston, again emotionally tapped out.

I arrived to the airport to two parents who had been drinking for hours in the airport Chili’s because they’d been made to wait, entirely unexcited to see me because they were tired of being at the airport. One slurring slightly.
My brother had no shoes on because he hadn’t realized he’d need to get out of the car— accustomed to domestic flights where I’m picked up curb side. My bags had been mixed up because of me missing the original flight, so we had to find one, and wait for the other that had ended up on the same flight as me. Then we had to wait longer for a carry on that had been checked at the gate because of its size.

It was the last bag out.
As we waited for that bag, my mom said when they had arrived there had been a family with balloons and a huge welcome home poster with the A&M insignia all over it, apparently their daughter was coming home from abroad, too.
She said, “I’m so glad we didn’t do that.”
It was easily one of the most hurtful things anyone has ever said to me. Just because my parents were tired— fuck how I felt— I wasn’t worth celebrating.
six months away wasn’t enough time to stir any anticipation for my arrival. Nothing quite so comforting as a slurring parent telling you you’re not even worth balloons.
We drove home with my mom asleep in the back seat, and as we exited towards downtown to go home, my dad said, “I’m proud of you. Don’t tell anybody.” I had to come home from paradise to two people who had no intentions of celebrating what I had just done, after the worst day of my life. People who had no interest in what I had done for nearly half a year on the other side of an ocean.

Flying in for 30 hours to spend Christmas with my family was A LOT easier.