Part 1: The Journey

September 11, 2021

Denver International Airport

I trudge through security and wave a last goodbye to my parents. I descend the stairs to the train and suddenly I am all alone. This is not the first time I’ve been alone in this airport. This isn't the first time I’m here to embark on an international journey, nor is it the first time I’ve cried in an airport. It is, however, the first time I have no return ticket; the first time it’s my time to go away for a long time and not someone else’s. I wanted to turn around and run back to the familiarity I have always known. Suddenly, I wish I were flying to Missoula instead.

I hop a plane to Dallas, grab a coffee (Dobson friends, guess what kind), and plop myself at D16 to wait for my escorts, Marshall and Letha Koehn (Walker, MO.) The gate is full of colorful muslim women and men in turbans and foreign languages. We get the last things squared away and board that beautiful A350 that is to be our chariot to Qatar.

Ah, Qatar Airways. Beautiful Middle Eastern flight attendants float through the aisles, donned in matching uniforms and maroon hats. A man in an aqua turban sips his drink. If I didn’t know any better, I would say the lady across the aisle from me is a wealthy oil heiress. She reaches into her giant bag and spritzes perfume all around; pulls out her mirror and touches up her makeup. Then, onto her face she slides the most outrageous black and diamond sunglasses I’ve ever seen. I am trying to figure out why she’s in economy with peasants such as us. Her seat neighbor offers her some Advil, but she’s smart and declines. He must think she’s stressed about oil prices or something. Overhead, the LED lights glow magenta and blue, casting a purplish light on everything they fall upon. I crane my neck to catch one last glimpse of the sunset as we leave America behind.

BANG BANG BANG!!! I had just accomplished the art of falling asleep in the subarctic temperatures of the cabin when suddenly, it seems the Saudi couple behind me has a bone to pick. The lady is banging on my seat with the force of a thousand beasts. The man is shouting something with a thundering voice that I cannot understand.

“Wha–?” I say in my sleepy stupor.

“You must put your seat up! I cannot get out, you MUST PUT YOUR SEAT UP.”

Ok. Awesome. I’m so excited for all this sleep I’m not going to get. But, my only talent pulls through once again, and I’m able to get some of that high-quality airplane sleep.

Fourteen-and-a-half hours later, we land in Qatar. Doha’s Hamad International Airport was voted #1 in 2021, and I can see why. Just imagine the nicest, most expensive mall you’ve ever been to: the ones where you must own countries and countries to feel like you can even walk through the doors. Imagine Saudi men dressed in all white breezing about in that mall. Now, put a Lamborghini Huracan in the middle, just to show this is a rich man’s playground. Plop a few five-star restaurants about. Then, somewhere in the back corner, almost as an afterthought, tuck an airport in there.

The American in me looks longingly into Starbucks. “Do they have coffee shops in Bangladesh?” I ask Marshall. He assures me that they do. We eat supper at Burger King, and very soon, six hours in Doha are completed.

We board the final flight to Dhaka (777-300D for all you plane people out there). The same Qatar Airways, the same beautiful flight attendants, only this time, spreading Arabic first rather than English. They breeze here and there, smiling behind their masks and holding out welcome packages. After takeoff, it's time for an outfit change. The guys don black vests; the girls maroon blazers. Then, it’s time to serve a hearty breakfast of lamb with rice and mango juice.

At one point, in the early light hours of the morning, I am standing in line for the lavatory when my favorite flight attendant spots me and comes hauling down the aisle to join me where I stand. “You wait here and I'll clean it for you after he is finished,” he says in accented English.

And so, the steward and I wait and wait and then we wait some more. Finally a passenger emerges. The light attended zips in and, through the thin plastic walls of the aircraft, I can hear him frantically cleaning. At last, he steps out and, in a dramatic gesture of pride and flamboyance, presents the lavatory to me. He did a five-star job if I may so so.

I learned two very important lessons about the Bengali people on this flight. 1): They have no sense of personal space, and 2): everyone must always be the first person to get somewhere. I observed a young Bengali who appeared to never have flown before. When the sun came up over India, he leaned his entire body over his sleeping seatmate to get that perfect “wing and sunrise” pic. The other dude never even stirred. When we landed in Dhaka, half the lane was out of their seats reaching for their luggage before we were taxied off the runway. I would come to learn that this is a normal way of living.

Thirty-two hours, four cities, too many airplane meals and not enough sleep later, we finally land in Dhaka. The flight attendant mundanley recites his piece in garbled Arabic, takes a breath and does it all again in English. Everything outside the windows is green- every shade you can imagine and more yet. I can’t believe I’m finally here. The journey has been long, yet somehow it’s felt like a familiar friend; like going home. Outside my window, a Bangladesh flag waves a welcome from atop a building. I can’t keep from smiling, because I know I’m finally home.

There are stars you haven’t seen

And loves you haven't loved.

There is light you haven’t felt

And sunrises yet to dawn

There are dreams you haven't dreamt

And days you haven’t lived

And nights you won't forget

And flowers yet to grow

And there is more to you

Than you will ever know

-G.C.

Ok see you love you byeeeeeee!

-Kalli

P.S. My new family is amazing. I could not have asked for better peoples, and I don’t know how I’ve survived so long without them. More on that jazz later.