United Airlines: not too shabby

Ahhh travel day. The beginning of a journey, the inception of a voyage, so beautiful––PSYCHE. If you somehow manage to derive joy in racing from sky checkpoint to sky checkpoint alongside hundreds of irritable strangers, I don't trust you. I admire you, but I don't trust you. Interestingly enough, I spend a good deal of time convincing myself that I enjoy the getting-from-A-to-B-part of a trip.

"I just love the energy of a bustling airport," I'll catch myself cooing to friends and family before heading off. In reality, I'm a bonafide con-artist. I always have this picture in my head of what I'll look like navigating the airport: hair curled, outfit matching, shoes clicking, designer luggage in tow. But no matter how much prep I seem to do to manifest this alter-ego superhuman-flight-model, it never pans out. In fact, I usually end up looking much to the contrary: hair greasy from nervous finger-brushing, a comfort-over-class sweatpants combo with sneakers to match, and a hodgepodge of second-hand luggage that doesn't quite roll properly.

Anyway, today's travel venture was no exception to my usual chaotic departure routine: I got one hour of sleep, wasn't able to check-in to my flight online, and to top it off, my suitcase turned out to be 20 pounds too heavy and 2 inches too big. Luckily, I found this out at home and frantically repacked my belongings (thank you mom) in two smaller suitcases with time to spare for breakfast on-the-go.

My parents then graciously drove me to the C&J Bus Station in Portsmouth, NH––saving us about an hour of painful traffic and irreversible road rage á la Richard Ruhlin (the pops).

The goodbyes were sad, they always are. I'm the kind of person who can't bid a loved one "adieu" without a few tears, but I'm definitely not the kind of person who embraces it. As soon as I feel the waterworks coming on, my body can't help but get embarrassed by its visible emotions. My eyes shoot to the ground, my throat closes up, and my jaw clenches tight. So my apologies mom and dad, but hopefully this justifies my awkwardly brief farewell at the station!

The bus ride itself was smooth and with an on-the-dot 10 a.m. departure, it was punctual too. No one even judged me for silently blubbering to my sad Spotify playlist whilst depressingly gazing out the window––bonus points, C&J!

I'm almost a little afraid to write this next part because I'm a firm believer in jinxing oneself but, Boston Logan Airport was... dare I say... a breeze?? Seriously though: no line at the United Airlines check-in, no trouble checking bags, and no line for security. The chairs in my gate even had little chargers for every seat so no more huddling on the floor by the vending machines!

I give flight number one from Boston to Newark a solid 8/10. It was quick, comfortable (somehow the gods graced me with aisle seats on every flight), and I even got a stroopwafel, which if you're unaware, is a gourmet snack brought back by popular demand on all United flights as of last year. From Newark, I flew to Brussels in seven hours where I met up with about twelve of my other Kigali-bound classmates in the airport before our final eight-hour leg of the trip. I don't know exactly what I expected in meeting everyone, but I think I was a little nervous that they would be smarter, more prepared and all around better than me. Aside from my being the only Mainer of the crew, I quickly learned that my worries couldn't have been farther off. Each person seemed so different in their own respects to studies, location, looks and background, yet we had all dived equally head-first into this challenging new environment.

After eight hours of watching rom-coms, devouring airplane food, and watching the clock––we arrived in Kigali. From the plane we headed straight to customs but not before a brief coronavirus screening which ultimately meant a man dressed in a white coat and mask asking "are you sick?" After clearing the medical checkpoint, we waited for about an hour to obtain our $50 visas and collect our well-traveled luggage from a heaped pile of suitcases.

I saw my first impressions of Rwanda through an open window of a cramped bus that drove us from the airport to our temporary guest house for the week. Even at night, with elbows and knees jabbing every which way, I could tell Kigali was a city I would love. Light-filled hills overlapped each other for miles in the distance and Rwandan couples walked hand-in-hand past fluorescent street shops and vendors. The temperature was just as I expected––cool enough for a light jacket, but perfect for an evening stroll.

After the long journey, I welcomed the traditional Rwandan dinner SIT had prepared for us, with open arms. Our guest house located in Gasabo, the largest district of the city, is lovely. Every window has a breath-taking view of either the city or the hills and the home cooked meals each morning, afternoon, and night are equally exquisite. Rooms are shared by two (or in my case, three) students, and each bed is adorned with a hanging mosquito net––the universal sign of "you're not in Kansas anymore."

Rwanda is shaping up to be everything I've heard and more so far: a little rainy here, a little hot there, greenery to the horizon line, and kindness and beauty everywhere I look.