Exchanging

Iain Burnside

September 11th has an obvious significance to the world at large but, seven years later, is has a special meaning to me. The day itself was far from exciting, being spent for the most part in airports and airplanes, sitting and waiting, yet it was representative of a true turning point in my life. It was the day I left Edinburgh to begin my international exchange year at the University of Washington in Seattle, USA.

(No, I have no idea why they picked that name for the state either. Perhaps after making it that far west they were just too tired to be more creative.)

I had wasted a fair few years after school trying to figure out a sense of direction and purpose in life. A degree in biological sciences didnt work out. Working in healthcare wasnt for me. Being depressed and medicated wasnt either. In retrospect, however, I wouldnt have changed anything about those days as I made some true friends during them, which helped bring me to the grand realisation that what I wanted to do was explore, enlighten and entertain history. After a few years of part-time study, working in non-descript office jobs along the way, my full-time honours year was to begin in earnest, stateside.

Having the opportunity to participate in this program was quite humbling. Knowing that I once again had the confidence and capacity to not mess it up (fingers crossed!) was reassuring. The various contributions made by my relatives made me extremely grateful. The good-luck messages, farewell presents and epic night-out photographic evidence of which exists somewhere but ought to be ignored for reasons of sanity and good taste from my friends reminded me just how lucky I am to have such wonderful people in my life. The pinnacle of this positivity was my relationship with Patrice.

Its hard to believe that we met just over a month ago but then we do have a habit of ignoring time altogether when together. Indeed, she has a timeless quality about her, a real classic, graceful beauty that enriches my life each time I get to see the rest of it in her eyes. But I shouldnt keep on gushing, so heres the kicker: shes American and in Scotland, Im Scottish and in America. Its a real bittersweet piece of irony. Thankfully its just a temporary situation and she will join me here in time to kick-off the New Year with one another (the first of many).

Much of this was going through my mind on this 9/11, so the bulk of the Heathrow-SeaTac flight was spent writing a lengthy letter to Patrice. It was far more entertaining than watching the old-man movie they were showing, Indiana Jones and the Macguffin of Something. Instead I was quite happy listening to the radio stations (mainly the new Coldplay album; now 48% less whingy!) and scribbling away inanities fuelled by the free beer. Well, Heineken. It may count as beer to some. I actually got a bit of a telling off from the stewardess for wanting another brought to my seat rather than collecting it from the galley. So far as outrageous stories involving alcohol and airplanes go, this is by far the most rock and roll.

At least I managed to arrive with somewhat of a clear mind, countless hours after the day had begun. 6am, Greenwich Mean Time, to be exact. My mum came out to Edinburgh Airport in the taxi with me and we killed time with gigantic coffees in the terminal, trying to ignore the big white elephant of goodbye. She told me that it was only on their second date that she knew she wanted to marry my father. That helped legitimise in my brain what I felt in my heart about Patrice. Of course, the goodbyes couldnt be ignored forever and with them came the tears. It wasnt a sad moment but definitely an emotional one, another reminder of how much she has done for me. Superheroes dont wear capes; they get Mothers Day gifts.

Still, maybe a cape would have helped speed up the transatlantic jaunt. It was about 1am my time when I landed, which was still not as drastic a time shift as some of the other international students had. Some seem to have mislaid an entire day. Getting through immigration was straightforward. It was lugging the heavy suitcases around that proved cumbersome, especially on the epic journey to the hidden taxi ranks at SeaTac. The driver, as with many people here, was quite intrigued by the notion of Scotsmen wearing skirts.

Eventually there came the much-welcomed comfort of a king-sized bed at a Days Inn motel, where I was spending the weekend after cancelling a planned homestay with a local family. It may well be a useful process for some but I was pleased to be able to do my own thing on my own schedule instead of inconveniencing strangers. After checking that my (hopefully) legal bottle of whisky survived intact, it was off to crash out in front of American TV, containing American commercials, with a hearty American meal Taco Bell.

Seven years earlier I was lounging around our student flat, wasting time, when my mum called about the attack on New York. In my then-hollow state of mind I couldnt comprehend the symbolic nature of those events or the impact they would have on the world. Just before boarding at Heathrow I saw news coverage of the Ground Zero memorial service on a TV. The repercussions continue to unfold across borders and oceans, gathering momentum and fresh grudges along the way it can be intense to contemplate, yet the equal and opposite contemplations in my mind were of the love and beauty to be savoured in this life.

Viva la Vida!