It was the end of May and classes had just ended for the summer. Just two months prior, I had stumbled across a flier on one of the telephone poles while walking to one of my favorite hole-in-the-wall coffee shops. It advertised a nearly all-expenses-paid trip to England, and we would be staying for three months with an English host family. They would be responsible for 'providing a magical experience' and a welcoming environment for the exchange of cultures and new ideas. Classes would not resume again until late August and I was feeling tired and rundown from the many hours of studying for my exams, so this seemed like the perfect laid-back summer adventure. I didn't truly understand all the details to be honest, and it was supposed to start tomorrow. I would be flying to London, England for the first time, and there one of the family members would be picking me up and driving me to the home of my host family. I was to stay with them and learn about England and a whole bunch of other mumbo jumbo listed on the poster.
My original reasoning for why I had applied had been because I had never been to the UK, and the whole trip was almost suspiciously inexpensive for the quality of the experience they were advertising. If I had to live with a different family for a few months it would be fine, as long as I got to see the country and meet new people. I would miss my parents and three sisters while I was away, but this was supposed to be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and I didn't want to miss out. I had been in a sort of rut with my current schedule and I was excited to be doing something new and different than what I was used to.
I glanced around my small apartment, creating a mental checklist of what I might need for this upcoming adventure across the pond. I didn't know what the weather was like in England, but I had heard that it rained a lot, so I tossed my favorite green raincoat into my take-to-England-but-fold-later pile. I was wary of packing too much stuff and looking odd to my host family. There were lots of stereotypes about Americans abroad and I was not eager to confirm them. I also had a bit of a southern accent coming from Oklahoma, and some people found it endearing while others found it horrid to listen to. I hope my hosts were part of the former group.
My carry-on bag was set out for all the things I would need for getting ready in the morning, but everything else could go in the large, black, hardshell suitcase my dad had let me borrow. Some leggings would be going, running shoes of course, some t-shirts, some fancy clothes, lots of socks and underwear, a gazillion sports bras (because I hated wearing 'real' bras), my phone, watch, and laptop chargers along with my headphones. I also tossed in the book I was currently reading and a spare if I finished it before the end of the program.
Final exams had been finishing up this week, so of course my apartment was a disaster and it made things hard to find. I was usually a very tidy person, but when stress got a little high it would show by the state of my apartment. There were dirty clothes all over the floor and dishes piled up in the sink with oatmeal and pasta sauce petrified to them. The carpet was dotted with shoes and papers and charging cables, making it hard to actually see the floor beneath. But even then, the carpet underneath was covered with mysterious stains from the many renters who had lived in the space before me.
Packing continued well into the night, partly because I had procrastinated all week, and when it was time to call it quits I laid down in my bed, feet sore from standing and walking around so much. I had tidied the kitchen, living room and my bedroom, making sure that I didn't miss anything I wanted to bring to England, and also because I didn't want to return to a messy apartment in August. I took some deep breaths tried to quiet my mind and relax my tense body so that I could get some much-needed rest and let dreams of my new journey flutter through my head.
9:04 AM reflected back at me from my watch as I rolled my luggage over to the pick-up area of the airport. London was six hours ahead of the time zone I had just come from and it was quite an adjustment. I felt like I had already gone through a whole day's worth of traveling, seeing as my flight left Oklahoma City after 3:00 PM and had an hour layover in Atlanta before we crossed the Atlantic for eight hours. Back home it would be close to three in the morning, which was definitely passed my bedtime, and I could do with a little siesta before all the excitement of meeting my host family.
The flights were alright in general, economy seats, a window seat on the way to Atlanta and and aisle seat on the way to London. On the second flight a large and sweaty man was seated next to me, babbling about why we should defund NASA for faking the moon landing. I put my headphones in to try to drown him out, but alas, he was undeterred. After getting off the plane we had to find the baggage claim and wait nearly twenty minutes before they had all the luggage unloaded from the aircraft.
It was fairly warm outside today and the sound of airplanes rumbled loudly overhead as they took off to their destinations. I found an empty bench alongside the lane designated for cars picking up their passengers and pulled my luggage to the side so as not to trip anyone.
After a few minutes a small, silver sedan pulled into the pick-up lane in front of the bench I was seated on and a man with tousled-looking jet-black hair and bright green eyes rimmed with round glasses stepped out of the driver's side, which to me was the passenger side in America. That was definitely something I had to get used to! He had a friendly smile as he approached me and stuck out his hand politely in greeting.
"Hello, you must be Ms. Castles," he gripped my hand and shook it gently.
"Please, call me Clarke," I smiled back at the man and he gestured to my suitcase and backpack.
"Can I put your things in the boot?" he asked, which caused me to give him a puzzled look. Boot? The man gestured to the trunk of the car and I had to mentally smack myself. I had researched on the plane words that were different in England than they were in America and 'boot' here meant 'trunk' to me.
"Oh! Of course! Sorry, I'm still trying to understand all the lingo," I chuckled and gave the man a sheepish smile. He waved my apology off and quickly deposited my suitcase and backpack in the 'boot' of the car. I had to remind myself that the passenger side was on the left side, so I walked around the front of the car and opened the door to get in. I plopped down on the tan leather seats, immediately noticing the new car smell. It must be a rental, I figured.
"I'm Harry, Harry Potter," the man said as he got in the driver's seat.
"Nice to meet you, Harry," I grinned. "Thank you for picking me up." He returned the thanks with a sincere smile of his own. He had a British accent, much like everyone around here, and it was refreshing to listen to. Back home there was a dividing line between a slight southern accent like mine, and then the deep south accents that sounded like they were straight out of a Hollywood Western.
"It's no problem, when Mrs. Weasley said they needed someone to drive you I volunteered straight away. Her family's done so much for me that it just felt like the natural thing to do." I nodded politely, wondering who this Mrs. Weasley was.
"Who is Mrs. Weasley?" I asked, giving Harry a polite but slightly curious look. I had been told a month ago that they were working on pairing up the applicants with the families and that our information would be given to the host families, but we never received any notice about the people we would be spending an entire summer with.
"They didn't tell you about the Weasleys?" I shook my head. "Well," he sighed happily, "they are like my second family. Technically they will be after Ginny and I's wedding." I bobbed my head along to show I was listening and made a mental note of all the names had had mentioned already. "They Weasleys will be hosting you for the summer holiday and, believe me, you won't find a livelier bunch than those lot!" He chuckled as he recalled the family in question, prompting me to smile as well, even if I didn't know the family he was talking about.
"Ginny is their only daughter and my fiancée," he explained. "When we get there you'll get to meet Molly, Bill and his wife and daughter, Percy and his girlfriend, Ron and Hermione, and George. Arthur is Molly's husband and had to go into work this morning, but he should be back by lunch to meet you as well.
"Is there anything important I should know before I meet them?" I asked hopefully. He seemed to ruminate on the question for a few moments, gathering his thoughts.
"They lost a son three years ago," he began solemnly. "One of the twins, Fred, died and they're still healing. If his name comes up it might be best not to dwell too long on the topic or mention it again." I nodded in understanding, feeling awful for both the family as a whole and whoever Fred's twin was. I can't imagine losing a twin, that must have been a heart-wrenching experience.
"When are you and Ginny getting married?" I asked to change the subject to something a little happier. The question brought a small smile back to Harry's face.
"In October if we're lucky," he grinned. "Right now we're in the process of building a house and we're hoping to have it done so we can host the reception there. But at the moment we've been staying with the Weasleys."
"Well I hope it gets done in time," I beamed at him. I always loved weddings and the special atmosphere of the event. There was something about two people making a life-long commitment to each other that was just so inspiring. I had nearly been engaged myself just eight months ago, but in that case I was glad it didn't progress to a wedding.
"How was your flight?" Harry asked, making small talk to fill the silence.
"Not too bad," I reassured him. "I sat next to a very interesting man on the way here, but I did get an aisle seat."
"Way to look at the bright side," Harry praised. As we chit-chatted about this and that my eyelids were starting to grow heavy. I never slept on planes, probably some leftover trauma from my sisters taking embarrassing pictures of me when I fell asleep on family road trips, and so I was severely sleep deprived. I leaned my head against the cool window and folded my arms as I settled back into my seat. The weight of my eyelids was too much for me to fight now and so I willingly succumbed to the sweet sensation of slumber.