Cursed

I had never dreamed of seeing America. I’m not one of those people who swoon over warm beaches, tall buildings, or luxury cars around every corner, but where I’m flying, there will be plenty of those. Maybe the idea of the socalled “American Dream” would fascinate me if I didn’t know that among the incredibly rich walk the incredibly poor. I also had never been outside of Europe before, and the longest I’d ever been away from home was about a month, so this is a huge step for me and for my mom. But as she drives me to Dublin Airport in her old Volkswagen, she doesn’t look very sad. Even though her face has seemed tired and worn for the past few years, her eyes are smiling, and her gaze is gentle and caring. I realize I rarely see her truly happy, which makes leaving even harder. Panic sets in when I realize we’ll be separated by about 8,000 kilometers.

“Mom, maybe I should stay?” I ask in a worried voice.

“Vivija, don’t talk nonsense. We’ve already discussed this. Not everyone gets such an opportunity.”

For a moment the joy disappears from her face. I turn my eyes toward the car window. I watch the moving scenery, the passing trees, the streetlights, the old town buildings lit up. I watch the rain filling little potholes in the asphalt. I watch the street turning into a giant mirror. Soon this picture will be replaced with sunshine, palm trees, and tall skyscrapers.

“I just don’t really understand why this makes you happy…” I mutter quietly. Mom sighs heavily, like my math teacher used to when I couldn’t understand some equation.

“Vivija,” she slowly repeats my name, “the past few years have been hard, but that doesn’t mean you can shut yourself away for the rest of your life…” She pauses for a moment before continuing. We don’t talk much about the past, the subject is far too sensitive for both of us.

“Mair agus taithi a fhail.”

After this phrase from my mom, we reach the airport in silence and park in the garage. With her help, I pull my heavy suitcase out of the trunk. Remembering that I’ll be gone for six months makes my heart ache again. I should feel happy that I got a place in an exchange program, although it was really my mom’s idea to apply, just like it was her idea for me to study. As we approach the security checkpoint, I start feeling nauseous, and my legs refuse to move, but I try to ignore it. When it’s time to say goodbye to my mom, tears start welling up in my eyes. It feels like I’m carrying bags of rocks on my shoulders. I can’t look her in the eye, afraid I’ll break down, so I hug her as tightly as I can.

“Text me or call me when you land. And don’t forget to talk to your old mother from time to time.” She tries to joke, but I don’t feel like laughing. Seeing my sorrow, she stops smiling, kisses my forehead, and says: “Everything will be fine.”

Standing in line at security, I regret not saying goodbye differently. I regret not telling her how much I love her. Somehow this whole idea feels like a mistake, but I know she wants this. She wants her daughter to go out into the world, to experience new things. To gain what she never had the chance to. After all, I have my whole life ahead of me, or so she says.

After nearly eleven hours of flying, I can safely say it was the worst flight of my life. Not only was it the longest journey I’ve ever taken, but the plane’s air conditioning barely worked, so it was stifling. After five hours you could smell the heavy, sweaty air. I slept only a couple of hours because a woman with a child was sitting next to me. I’m exhausted. I had chosen a late flight from Dublin so that I’d arrive in San Francisco during the day, I didn’t want to get to the apartment in the middle of the night.

The airport is huge, so to avoid getting lost I follow the other passengers from my flight like a sheep. A group of them leads me to baggage claim, where I have to wait. I use the time to text my mom that I landed safely. I look around, trying to figure out where I’ll need to go. I’m terrified of being alone in such a big city. Terrified because everything here is different from Europe. I’ll have to get used to saying AM and PM, since clocks only go up to 12 hours. I’ll have to get used to paying in dollars instead of euros. The climate, the nature, the architecture, so many differences that scare me.

Finally, I spot my yellow suitcase. When we bought it, mom said it would be perfect for sunny California. I pull at it with all my strength—it’s horribly heavy—and accidentally drop it on my toe. The pain is sharp, but I hide it, slowly breathing in and out.

It takes me a few minutes to find the exit of this endless airport. As the automatic doors open, a wave of heat hits me, like someone poured boiling water over me. I feel like a fish thrown onshore, gasping for air. I try to look up at the sky, but the sun blinds me. My first task: find a way to the city center. Since my suitcase is massive, I immediately rule out public transport. I find a ride-hailing service, gasp at the price, but order an Uber anyway.

Near the airport there’s nothing remarkable, but as we drive closer to the city, the scenery changes. Palm trees appear here and there, the buildings grow taller by the minute, and so does the traffic. I catch myself staring wide eyed at the urban landscape of San Francisco, it has so much to it. I feel my breath catch. I almost forget to text my roommate that I’ve arrived. The tall skyscrapers make it clear we’re in the middle of the city. The car probably looks like a toy among them, and I’ve never felt so small. Suddenly, the driver pulls over.

“I’m sorry, miss, but I can’t drive any farther. Roadwork.”

I’m frustrated, realizing I’ll have to drag my heavy suitcase the rest of the way, and that I’ve paid full price. But I’m not in the mood to argue, so I just nod and get out. The driver helps me with my suitcase, wishes me luck, and drives off. Without thinking, my eyes wander upward to take in the architecture. I open the map on my phone and set my route. Thank God it’s only a 15 minute walk. I try to see the bright side, maybe it’s a chance to get to know the city a little.

It’s harder than I thought. It’s difficult to enjoy a walk when you’re dragging a suitcase packed with half your life, under the blazing sun. By the time I reach the building, I’m drenched in sweat and probably look awful. My messy bun has become even messier, sticking out in all directions. At the front door, I check my messages and find the code my roommate, Melissa, sent me. I punch it in, the door unlocks, and I wrestle my suitcase inside. I’m dreaming of a shower, sleep, and maybe some food. In the elevator, I press the 10th floor and try to remember the apartment number, it's 79, if I’m not mistaken.

Standing in front of the door, I admit I’m a bit nervous. I ring the bell, and the door opens almost immediately. A pretty face framed by dark burgundy straight hair appears.

“Finally, girl!” she exclaims, opening the door wider. “Come in.”

I force a fake smile and step inside. Melissa closes the door behind me. The living room is connected to the kitchen, bright and modern. White walls, a cream-colored sofa, a matching rug with black stripes. A white kitchen, wooden bar stools, a coffee table, and a dining table bring warmth to the space. The wood matches the floor. I slowly take it all in.

“Do you like it?” my roommate asks, unable to hide her smile, while I struggle to produce one.

“Yes,” I say, turning to her. “Could I use the bathroom?”

“Oh, what an interesting accent…” she remarks. I raise my eyebrows. I expected this, just not on the first day. “You can use everything here, no need to ask. This is your home now.”

Her words twist my stomach. It doesn’t feel like home at all.

“Are you hungry? I made spaghetti today. Or maybe you’d like to eat out…”

“Thanks, spaghetti sounds good. But I’d really like to take a shower first.”

“Of course! Come on, I’ll show you your room.”

Melissa leads me to a small white room with a single bed, a wardrobe, and a nightstand.

“My bed’s a double, so if you ever bring someone over to have fun, you can use it.”

I can’t tell if she’s joking. Without another word, she leaves me alone. Curious, I walk over to the window. The sun that had been lighting the room now shines directly on my face. Beyond the lower buildings I can see the skyscrapers, including the Salesforce Tower. Dropping my suitcase on the floor, I unzip it and dig out some comfortable clothes to wear at home, then head toward the bathroom.

As I enjoy the warm water, I think about everything I have to do. The new semester starts in a week, so I need to sort out paperwork, go to the university, and exchange euros for dollars, since I can’t always pay by card.

When I come out of the shower, exhaustion hits me, my lack of sleep is catching up. I find Melissa sitting on the couch, flipping through channels. She smiles warmly at me. Feeling shy, I go to the fridge.

“Hey, is this your first time in San Francisco?” she asks. I close the fridge after finding food.

“It’s my first time in America.”

“Then we absolutely have to go out, and the best place to start is fun.” She pauses, smiling. “My suggestion is a club. What do you say?”

I stay quiet for a moment. I’ve never been to a club. In fact, I’ve barely been anywhere. I don’t really approve of that kind of fun. Clubs are full of weird people, or, if not weird, then looking for one-night stands. I wrinkle my nose.

“Thank you for the offer, but I…” I stop myself, remembering my mom’s words: Mair agus taithi a fhail. I close my eyes, bite the inside of my cheek. “Okay.”

Melissa gets so excited she claps her hands. Jumps up and runs toward me.

“It’s going to be amazing! Will four hours be enough to get ready?”

Normally half an hour is plenty for me, but this way I’ll have time to eat and nap. I nod. I suspect it’ll be hard to get along with her, our lifestyles are so different.

When I wake up, the first thing I do is glance out the window. I always do this to figure out what time it is. The sun is still shining, but not as bright. I squint, grab my phone. It’s almost 8 p.m., only twenty minutes to get ready. I rush to grab my makeup and toiletries and run to the bathroom. The door is ajar, Melissa is there, applying mascara.

“Don’t tell me you’re only starting to get ready now,” she says without looking away from the mirror. I shrug. “Join me.”

She steps aside, and I brush my teeth. I feel uncomfortable doing makeup next to her, I’m not very skilled at it, so I finish quickly and retreat to my room. I put on a bit more makeup than usual, but still nothing compared to Melissa. With her perfect smoky eyes, I can tell she’s used to parties. Looking into my small mirror, I've decided to call it a day. I brush out my messy hair and tie it into a neat ponytail. My hair is slightly wavy, especially at the ends, and in a ponytail they bounce around lightly.

I have no idea what to wear to a club, since I’ve never been. I choose denim shorts that, thank God, actually cover me, a white t-shirt, and a light blue kimono-style blouse with a daisy pattern. That should do. I spend another five minutes debating between sneakers and my beloved beige Birkenstock sandals. Sneakers win.

Back in the bathroom, Melissa is finishing up. She adjusts her bra to make her chest look better, then looks at me.

“Cute,” she says. “But if you let your hair down, you’d look hotter.”

I force that same fake smile I’ve worn for years. I don’t want to seem unfriendly, but I’m definitely not letting my hair dow, I like it neat and out of the way.

Melissa takes another ten minutes, and finally we leave. She locks the door and checks it twice.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” she says, rummaging through her purple handbag. She pulls out a single key and waves it in front of me. “Your house key.”

I tuck it into my shorts pocket, hoping it won’t fall out. I follow her to the elevator. On the way down, she adjusts her tight black dress. Her body is beautiful, but the dress highlights a few folds around her stomach. I’d never have the courage, but she clearly has plenty of confidence.

“We won’t take the car, we’ll walk. I plan to drink tonight. If needed, we’ll call a cab.”

Remembering that my Uber driver wouldn’t (or couldn’t) take me all the way earlier, I wonder if this is such a good idea.

“You have a car?” I ask.

“Yes, a Honda. It’s tiny, the same color as your little blouse.”

I glance down at my pastel blue top. I like this color. It reminds me of a clear sky, of the ocean waves. It calms me, makes me forget, makes me stop thinking.