Foreigner

I remember it like it was yesterday, even though it was eleven years ago. The memories of my first hour on American soil are gracefully etched on my mind with a freshness that transcends recollections of more recent experiences. As I alight from the recesses of the huge orange, yellow and white bird--Air Jamaica’s Boeing 772--I realize my fortune at having being granted this much envied opportunity of venturing outside the “box” of my native land. The excitement of the night is enhanced by the frenzy of anxious passengers tripping over each other to reclaim their luggage, and then having retrieved them, casually stroll towards the exit as though they have just accomplished the most fulfilling task ever assigned. I am with my family but I am alone in my moment of orientation as I absorb the different languages, both spoken and physical, of my soon-to-be neighbors. Thrilled by the knowledge that I am now a member of this diverse mezcla, I grab my luggage and head towards the exit with my luggage-toting family in tow.
As the automated doors part open, I step into the night air and the heat for which Florida is so famed comes rushing at me, clutching me as it were in a snug, welcoming embrace. I welcome the sweat trickling down the side of my face as one more element with which I could identify with my new family. Almost everyone is sweating, which probably explains the now scantily dressed men and women milling around outside waiting for their rides. Immediately, I am fascinated by the whir of activity which all seem to be happening at once: the blaring horns of taxis as drivers compete for space in the chaos of traffic oozing into the terminal, the bustle of families and friends flitting by to pick up their loved ones (there are some who break the pace by stopping to greet and welcome their passengers; others seem stifled by the intimacy of the atmosphere and hurry their passengers along), the urgency of the traffic police as they desperately try to maintain a smooth flow of traffic. From my vantage point, I am able to appreciate the intermingling of lights from the neatly-rowed, well-lit houses; the traffic lights, car lights, street lights, and industrial lights. In fact, every object around me seems to be emanating some form of light, giving me hope of a light at the end of my otherwise dismal tunnel. The nostalgia that was enveloping me during my flight seems to be slowly melting away.
I am vaguely aware of my younger siblings as they rush to greet my cousin who is giddy with pride that my father entrusted his SUV in his care. As though in a trance, I saunter towards the back of the truck to stow my luggage. As the newcomer, I am offered the front seat, and I graciously accepted. Absently, I buckle my seat belt and settle back for my journey, away from Gate 4 and all familiar territory, into the unknown.