By Caroline Beresford-Wood
The Madrid airport’s support pillars gradually change hues, red all the way to yellow on the farthest side. I had noticed this when we first landed in Spain; I was so excited about the adventure ahead of me, this airport was the first step in it. When we had arrived, we walked from the red pillared side of the airport toward the yellow, toward customs and the bag claim and the bus that would take us to see Toledo. But we just walked from yellow to red; we’re leaving now, and we have to go back to real life and make sense of the whirlwind these past three weeks have been.
Red to yellow. I didn’t know what I was getting myself into; I only knew it would be uncomfortable, a growing pain, more listening than speaking. I did not expect to make the friends I’ve made, do the things we got to do, or leave with more questions than when I came here. I kept my mind and hands open to see what was to be had in all of this for me. Yellow to red. I wish I didn’t have to shift from yellow to red so soon. I already miss the calls to prayer, the slow pace, the conversations with classmates. My hands are more full than I expected them to be; there are people I never would have known before who have become good friends and there are good friends staying behind that I may never see again. I didn’t know what I was getting into, but now I don’t want to leave.
Red to yellow. I didn’t know how my life was going to play out; I hardly knew how the next few weeks will play out. I hoped that the few weeks on this trip would be eye opening, I hoped that it would be a time to teach me about myself and to get to know more about the place I have in the world. Yellow to red. I still don’t know how my life is going to play out; the few weeks on this trip have taught me how to be open, how to lean into the awkward and the uncomfortable, how to say yes and how to say no, too. These past few weeks have stripped me down, away from my comfort zone I am not the same person I thought I was. This trip encouraged me to match action to conviction, to do what I say I’ll do and let my beliefs be seen in my behaviors, especially in the ways I talk, dress, and interact with the world around me.
Yellow to red. I carry home with me now; travelling changes me into a nomad of sorts as I drink my Moroccan mint tea out of a Starbucks cup staring at the Seattle rain clouds. I don’t know where home is, other than the people I find myself at home with. I don’t know how to let anyone feel the excitement of riding the camel in Asilah, the funny confusion of trying to translate French to English and back again for my friends’ bargains, the exhausted rides home on the bus after long tours in new places. These experiences are coming home with me, beyond the movement from yellow to red; these moments are part of me, and I don’t know how to share them yet. I’m past the movement from yellow to red, I’m back now. My red roots are tangling back around my soul, reminding me of where I come from. As I look at what had happened before, headed from red to yellow and into this grand adventure, it’s hard to believe that the trek from yellow to red was only three weeks ago. As I readjust to what I’ve always known, I find myself running back and forth, dancing between red and yellow and red again, trying to make sense of my several homes at once. I’ve been blended into something I wasn’t before: the red and yellow interacted far too much to let them make it out unscathed, but I’ve always been a fan of orange.