Manual for the marooned
Chapter 1: Recipe for disaster
It was a foreign, sultry autumn afternoon. The afternoon I found out, I had no idea why I had left Amsterdam in a flurry of anger and hurt. The afternoon I had no idea what the hell I was doing in San Diego.
Walking through the airport towards the arrivals terminal and weaving deftly in between other passengers towards the customs desks, I can feel sweat already forming underneath the clasp of my bra. As I hoist my backpack a little higher on my shoulders I try to take deep breaths to somehow make the surprisingly warm temperatures a little more bearable. As I walk underneath the 'nothing to declare' signs I remember I've been up for almost twenty hours and wonder if there is anywhere nearby to get a coffee. 'I could definitely use a pumpkin spice concoction with too much sugar.' I think to myself as I try to stifle a massive yawn. When I left Amsterdam a mere eighteen hours earlier it was a rainy, grey and chilly autumn morning. I had quietly turned off my cell phone alarm at 05.00 and had deflated the air mattress. I felt my way through my friend Mariel's studio apartment, stumbling and brushing my teeth in the dark. I nervously checked my flight information and online tickets for the umpteenth time, gave Mariel a quick kiss on her tousled hair and whispered a sad goodbye and shuffled with my suitcase out into her hallway. Thinking back I feel silly for leaving that early, my flight was scheduled for 08.20 AM and I had already been through customs and was aimlessly browsing some perfumes in the tax-free zone by 06.45 having to wait another one and a half hours I figured I might as well get some breakfast and a huge coffee at a Starbucks which I later proceeded to throw back up whilst flying somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean, positively mortified at the people next to me, for showing them this sorrowful and weeping mess I had turned in to after take off. I yawn again, rubbing my hand tiredly over my face while searching for a restroom, I want to brush my teeth first before anything else, before meeting my landlord at least.
As I cross the busy baggage claim area I make a stop at the restrooms first, briskly maneuvering my way through the throngs of people waiting near the full conveyor belts. I wait in line for a minute or two before I finally hurry into a stall. I leave the bathroom feeling refreshed, having changed my clothes and cleaned off the grime of international travel. As I walk back towards the baggage conveyor belts I check my phone; 04.00 PM which means it's 1.30 AM European time. I sigh and yawn again, feeling tiredness seep into me. The area around me is bustling with people and my tired ears can't handle the noise of voices and plastic wheels on granite. I'm more than glad when I finally spot my suitcase. When I finally yank it from the conveyor I almost sprint towards the exit signs. Once outside I can't get over how nice the weather is. When I left Amsterdam this morning, or should I say yesterday morning, it was cold and wet. I had seen my breath forming clouds in the dark morning sky, the dreary weather perfectly fitting my mood. Now I was looking out onto a beautiful sunny day, at people in sunglasses and shorts. San Diego bay must be somewhere behind me I think, as I watch a few seagulls empty a trashcan across the street, guawking as the pull out rubbish all over the sidewalk.
I make my way over to the bus terminal and as I wait there for a couple of minutes I realize that there is some sort of strike. My initial plan was to have something to eat first when I got of the plane, but my fatigue made me want to get to my Airbnb as soon as possible. I check my phone again, no missed calls, one message from Mariel: "Veel plezier meisje, tot over een paar weken!" ("Have fun girlie, see you in a couple of weeks!") I move to stuff my phone back into my pocket but figure I might as well try to get an Uber, seeing as it is only getting more crowded at the bus stop. Suddenly, I see groups of passengers already returning to the taxi stands. An hour later I'm in the back an old dark green Mercedes driven by a man named Rasheed, and as we pull away from the airport I roll down the window and feel the stuffy and warm San Diego air floating past my face, I take out my phone again to send a quick text to my parents telling them I arrived safe. As we're waiting at a traffic light I take in everything around me, all the sounds and smells drifting in through the window. Rasheed puts on the news and while I listen to the radio in the background with one ear, my other picks up a racket of a noise outside the car. I crane my neck to look over my shoulder out the back window towards the sky to see two fighter planes soaring past in the distance.
I feel my phone buzz and nervously answer the call. "Mina! Welcome to San Diego!" the excited voice of Henry booms through the phone, "We are so looking forward to seeing you in a couple of days, the guys and I are thrilled that you could come!" I keep the call short and informative. "Yes, I will be there at 07.00" I hear myself respond. "Definately, great!" I manage to say with a cheerful undertone. As I finish the coversation, assuring Henry one last time that I am " so looking forward to meeting the team as well!" I hang up just as Rasheed pulls up to an apartment building.
Later as I finally lay on the couch in my rented apartment for the month, I finally relax. I look over to the microwave in the small kitchenette and the time reads 06.00 PM. I should probably unpack and take a stroll around my new neighborhood Logan Heights, maybe get something to eat at the deli around the corner I saw when Rasheed sped past, or take a well needed shower Instead I scroll aimlessly on my phone through my picture reel with my head comfortable in the nook of the navy blue sofa, my legs hanging over the armrest. My eye lands on a familiar photo or should I say screenshot from a couple of weeks ago. "ga naar San Diego en zorg dat die bakkerij op rolletjes loopt. Denk maar even na over wat ik gezegd heb schatje" ("Go to San Diego and sort that bakery out, take some time to think babe") For a moment I feel a weird sense of pride, pride in my pastry career, and pride in that I flew across the world on my own. But that feeling is quickly overtaken by the painful squeeze where my heart used to be. I sigh to myself and feel lost for a moment. Maybe I had taken a rash decision by leaving like that and taking this opportunity. No, grabbing it with two hands. I feel tears prickling behind my eyes as I put my phone aside on the floor, too tired to get up and walk across the room and into the bedroom. I take a deep breath to steady myself and sternly tell myself to stop it.
I take some deep breaths, 'in through the nose, out through the mouth' I remind myself.
Why am I here? I had left a perfectly good career behind with nice co-workers, a pretty nice apartment in Amsterdam, dear friends, my family.
I take a couple more deep breaths, steadying my nerves, feeling my heartrate slow. 'This is a great opportunity' I remind myself, I am a fully capable pastry chef, I've earned my stripes so to speak. I am successful, good at what I do. Great actually.
I roll over on my side, pulling my knees up and hugging them close to my body. I've won awards, travelled, even had my own team of pastry chefs at one point. I sigh, feeling a familiar twinge of regret, a single tear makes its way down my cheek, I huff and wipe it away with my palm. Everything is ruined now, everything's turned sour.I made completely sure to have burned all those bridges behind me, otherwise I would have been tempted to turn around and go back to my mistakes. I get comfortable on the sofa, which smells vaguely of Cheetos and I watch the evening sky go from golden, to red, to a deep purple. The muffled traffic noises seeping in from the open window across from me.
A few moments later I feel my mind drifting off as I fall asleep. The last thing that crosses through my mind's eye is a gorgeous, tall, dark haired man, who practically forced me to leave Amsterdam for a while. To try to run and make profitable his second and not very successful business endeavor. The only thing he doesn't realize is, that I'm not only here for the business opportunity but that I'm trying to get away from him.