Willkommen, Bienvenue, Welcome, and the Emirates
Without Prejudice
I am relieved I can understand most International Greetings, now. Willkommen, Bien Venue, Welcome. I have read them over and over in the last few weeks. The German, The French and the English. The Arabic a running squiggle.
Welcome, in different languages. Welcome to the U.K., welcome to Paris, welcome to Dubai. The Emirates Airport, huge and wonderful, only a few white robed men, one orange robed monk. Signs that make us laugh and sights that will remain forever. We are tourists my sister and I temporary guests in foreign lands.
In Dubai we catch a train to our flight gate, nervous suddenly about going home. We are so grateful to have been overseas but now in every cell of our jet lagged bodies we hear the tattoo, drummed into us as children
"Home "
My sister has another neck pillow, given as a gift by my English Aunt. Her first pillow bursting up out of its plastic bag and showering us both in tiny beans that float in the cabin of the Autobus. A massive plane that barely shows turbulence when the skies darken, and seat belt lights come on. Her second pillow leaks air not beans and we are immersed in girly mirth, exhausted and confused with jet lag that threatens to make us inert for the next week.
My sister buys another pillow, one just like mine, a dinosaur of twenty odd years. We don't sleep much on the last leg home. Our bodies not knowing whether to eat, shit, or die. My Sister full of a head cold that has crossed the world, never letting up in its intensity. Me with a sore wrist that tenses up when I am tired, my coccyx aching from constant sitting, and then I go arse over tit in the duty free.
All those hours spent overseas, safely, and then at the last hurdle I slip at Brisbane Airport. My head cracks on the marble floor and my elbow takes a lot of the impact. People come running, one saying they heard the crack of my sconce hitting the floor. I am at once embarrassed and in excruciating pain. A big egg on the back of my head forming immediately. My glasses bouncing off my face and a kind lady picks them up.
My sister is not with me, she is buying duty free last minute gifts and I am sprawled inelegantly on the slippy floor and anxious to get up. There has to be 12 people helping me. They ask if I am alone and I reply no, and I want these helpful people to leave me and then my Sister appears, Son In Law Booze in carrier bag.
I am relieved I can understand most International Greetings, now. Willkommen, Bien Venue, Welcome. I have read them over and over in the last few weeks. The German, The French and the English. The Arabic a running squiggle.
Welcome, in different languages. Welcome to the U.K., welcome to Paris, welcome to Dubai. The Emirates Airport, huge and wonderful, only a few white robed men, one orange robed monk. Signs that make us laugh and sights that will remain forever. We are tourists my sister and I temporary guests in foreign lands.
In Dubai we catch a train to our flight gate, nervous suddenly about going home. We are so grateful to have been overseas but now in every cell of our jet lagged bodies we hear the tattoo, drummed into us as children
"Home "
My sister has another neck pillow, given as a gift by my English Aunt. Her first pillow bursting up out of its plastic bag and showering us both in tiny beans that float in the cabin of the Autobus. A massive plane that barely shows turbulence when the skies darken, and seat belt lights come on. Her second pillow leaks air not beans and we are immersed in girly mirth, exhausted and confused with jet lag that threatens to make us inert for the next week.
My sister buys another pillow, one just like mine, a dinosaur of twenty odd years. We don't sleep much on the last leg home. Our bodies not knowing whether to eat, shit, or die. My Sister full of a head cold that has crossed the world, never letting up in its intensity. Me with a sore wrist that tenses up when I am tired, my coccyx aching from constant sitting, and then I go arse over tit in the duty free.
All those hours spent overseas, safely, and then at the last hurdle I slip at Brisbane Airport. My head cracks on the marble floor and my elbow takes a lot of the impact. People come running, one saying they heard the crack of my sconce hitting the floor. I am at once embarrassed and in excruciating pain. A big egg on the back of my head forming immediately. My glasses bouncing off my face and a kind lady picks them up.
My sister is not with me, she is buying duty free last minute gifts and I am sprawled inelegantly on the slippy floor and anxious to get up. There has to be 12 people helping me. They ask if I am alone and I reply no, and I want these helpful people to leave me and then my Sister appears, Son In Law Booze in carrier bag.
My head has a lump on it that looks and feels like a cartoon lump, it has grown out of the back of my head like a victim of the Road Runner and my elbow is a blue lump with a Mark through it.
