The Start

(Written 23 August, on the plane)

The sky is orange at the horizon. The rest of the sky is painted that beautiful hazy violet that only accompanies a plane over cloud cover at night. The violet fades into blue, blue into a strange, small stripe of a dirty lime green, the green fading once more into that vibrant orange. Even as I glance up to verify my adjectives, the colours have shifted as the sun drops, shrinking the orange and replacing it with a deep, dark maroon. The green is now a sickly yellow, and the turbulence on this flight is making me sickly as well.
I also felt sickly at seven thirty, Toronto time, today. I'd called my mother to let her know I was boarding my Montreal flight, that I was going to be in Belgium in only seven more hours. My mother, tearfully, ordered me to take each breath of my adventure bravely, to make the most out of every opportunity, but mostly, to not forget how to come home.
The colours in the sky are gone now. Even the violet in just an inky black as I struggle to leave behind everything I've ever known. I'm headed to an unfamiliar land. I've come to a bridge, a new path. The only thing I know now, on this plane on my way to Morlanwelz, is that everything I know won't be of any help for the next year.
I've said so many goodbyes in the last few months, to friends who I don't think could ever find the temerity to do what I'm about to, and I'm ready to start saying hellos.
But I'm not prepared; you can't really be prepared for something like this. You can study all the French in the whole world, and it won't make going thru security back home any easier, nor will it help you not to panic as you approach landing.