aesthetics of a return to the west

Within a half hour of being at Heathrow Airport, I’ve bought a socket converter so as to plug in my laptop, write this blog post, check email, call mum about airport pickup and figure out whether I can see the house Lalu bought (!!!) before heading to Canadian Yearly Meeting tomorrow. The plug sit squarely in the converter, no jiggle, a solid connection. Every device I used in Syria and Jordan took a delicate touch to balance the tines in the holes.

When British security staff pulled aside my bags and brush the wand over them, pull out each item and have me chug two separate drink containers (what? Liquids weren’t an issue leaving Jordan) I am unperturbed. The Muslim woman from the same flight, who lives in Denmark, seems agitated and keeps trying to get her bags back early. The frantic woman in the queue for issuing connecting flight boarding passes snaps at the woman who mistakenly cuts in front of her. Yes, we’re in England. There’s so much familiarity, I know how this goes, and I trust that I know how this goes. I put my nicer shoes on, my shirt with shorter sleeves. I spread sesame seeds everywhere from my halloumi bun from the Amman airport. Thanks, Nigella 🙂

I go to the iSpies music on myspace (wasn’t this Simon’s band? Jaan’s in it, but no Simon to be seen…). Rachel Stacy invites me to the farm, Sarah and I plan to talk after CYM, she can’t believe I’m already done (for now!), Philippe in London can’t figure out whether I’m coming or going, and Sharon and I will also meet after CYM. I twitter a few banalities (potatoes? I MUST be tired…mmm…and hungry) and decide to pursue food.

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