At London Heathrow, the TSA agent refuses to hand-check my rolls of film because they’re only ISO 400. Anything 800 and higher is okay; those are more sensitive to radiation and, therefore, susceptible to damage. But anything lower must go through the scanner.
“The film will still turn out weird,” I plead. “Like, foggy and stuff.”
The man with the lanyard and badge doesn’t budge.
“Sorry, miss.”
A warm, exasperated breath floods against my mask. “You’re the only place that does this,” I inform him, a blunt attempt at reasoning that I know, as soon as I say it, isn’t going to help. He shoves my bin further down the line.
“Why don’t you get a lead bag?”
A lead bag? A lead bag? Sure, let me travel back to a fabled time when I was somehow wiser and more prepared and buy a protective film bag I didn’t know existed until two seconds ago, but trust me, I will research later when I’m home and less agitated. Thank you for the tip, sir!
I lift my foot so he can examine my boots.
“Do I have to take these off?”
His eyes dart down and up.
“Ehh, try your luck.”
Despite hoards of travelers thronging on either side of the barrier, the queue is short; I’m waved forward without a word.
Fucking Americans, the phrase I’ve heard quietly in passing over the years, on the Underground, in one regaling or another, echoes in my skull.
“Fucking England,” I mutter as soon as I’m through security and go to collect my compromised film.
*
10 days earlier.
The flight from Minneapolis to London is overnight, and every seat and overhead compartment is crammed with people, presents, suitcases, and coats. (Note: there are no people in the overhead compartments.) I settle in, resting my cheek on Will’s shoulder as the plane cruises east to his homeland.
I have been to the UK before, even lived there, yet I still feel nervous about going. London, in particular, is like my twin flame, if a twin flame can be a city. At times, my relationship with it has been intense. A catalyst for breakthroughs and breakdowns. (Think: the Tower, in tarot.) It’s pushed me to evolve in ways both welcomed and painful. Shoved my insecurities into the spotlight and forced me to reckon with them. Every time I visit, I’m grateful for what the city has shown me and sweaty-palmed about what I might still need to face. (Something I never really know until I arrive.)
Forget Covid. Anyone have a fear of getting lice on a plane? I do. All modes of transportation, really. Busses. Ubers. Booths (not transportation, I know, but equally squirm-inducing.) Anywhere I can lean back my head. Nowhere is my fear of lice greater, though, than on an airplane, where escape and fresh air are significantly reduced and small children (potential carriers) teem. Due to the hot (why so hot?) temperature inside the cabin, I feel incapable of wearing a hat or wrapping a scarf around my crown as a protective shield against the dubious headrest/brick behind me. So I just have to deal, which I do by watching movies that make me weep, listening to music that also makes me weep, chatting with Will about the weeping, and when all of that is over and Will’s feigning sleep, becoming invested in the passenger to my right.
The young woman seated next to me spends the 8-hour flight quietly resting, snacking on crisps (we’re going with British vernacular from here on), and looking at pictures of herself on her phone. Due to extreme proximity and my inability to sleep, I also spend a portion of the journey eaves-looking at her selfies. Together, we scroll through endless shots of her posing with and without makeup, in the company of others and alone, through mirrors and beyond them. I’m struck by how conventionally beautiful her face is and how few pictures there are of anything else. Were someone to assess this person’s camera roll with the task of determining, from a cursory glance, what’s important to her… well, I know one answer!
I can’t talk. It would bring me acute embarrassment for anyone to glimpse the phone selfies I have taken, equal parts flattering and frightful, intended to immortalize my physical form or assess it for supposed weakness. I understand too well the compulsion to scrutinize and obsess to the point where a thing no longer exists, like repeatedly speaking a word until it loses all meaning. I have hyper-focused until I’ve disappeared, blurred into a pixelated blob—a result that is both disorientating and freeing, depending on perspective.
Another wave of weepiness rises in my chest for the young woman seated next to me and for all of us and the ways we are consumed. Outside, the sky is like the bottom of the ocean. I slip my headphones on and immerse myself in a world of sad, soft sounds, eyes closed, heart and mind still very much awake.
In London, we walk the dogs along the Thames and pop over to Richmond for Ted Lasso-related wandering. We play Scrabble with the family, build a 3D Harry Potter puzzle, and clink glasses in a pub owned by James Blunt. A few days before Christmas, we peruse the stalls at Borough Market with Will’s mum before heading to our old haunt in Brick Lane. We eat Thai food at Rosa’s and browse the stacks at Rough Trade—a stone’s throw from our former flat, which I’m pleased to discover has a thriving plant in the window.
On a relatively bright, windless day, we trek from the British Library to the edge of Green Park. I’m tempted to revisit the art school I attended near King’s Cross, but it feels physically and spiritually out of the way. We stop for coffee and a treat, duck into Hatchard’s to look at postcards and books, and weave through hoards of people along Picadilly before catching the bus back to SW6.
The entire time, I keep seeing the number 33.
Christmas Day is spent at my brother-in-law’s in Essex—what feels like a world away from the hustle and bustle of London. Nature is infinitely more prevalent in this part of the country and feels ancient and storybook. Something about the little town we’re in reminds me of where Will and I live in Minnesota, except everything is closer together and medieval. Mossier. More quaint.
Sometime after the presents have been opened, pudding eaten, and the festivities dwindled, I get antsy. Typically, by this point in any trip to England, I’m a tad on edge. I’m feeling socially drained, all my little pressure points and anxieties are mild to severely inflamed, and I’ve cried at least once.
But this time is different. I’m not upset or fussed about anything. So far, everything has been, well, lovely. My otherness—the thing that usually trips me up—no longer feels like a barrier but a portal to deeper connection and self-discovery. Even when my mind threatens to self-sabotage and dwell on various what-ifs and complaints, I notice that I’m calmer and less prone to letting it.
Back in London, I’m suspicious of this newfound peace. It feels almost flukey, and I keep waiting for something to shift and to burst into tears. While waiting at a crossing in central London, I suddenly feel as though someone is staring at me. When I look up, I see the number 33 for, like, the hundredth time.
Ok, fine, I think. Let’s figure this out. What lesson am I supposed to be learning? What do I still need to face?
I research everything 33 can possibly mean. There are so many interpretations: creative expression, spiritual growth, a call to create more balance and harmony in your romantic life/your work life/your cat’s life. Twin flames. I mean, pick a word or phrase, and 33 will likely indicate it!
My mind chews over this information until it is shredded and arranged into bedding for nesting in. Then it chews chews chews until another bed is formed and a whole cushy castle lifts into space.
Eventually, I give up, deciding to let the unknown stay unknown… when it dawns on me. Maybe there’s nothing I need to face. Maybe 33 is just a nod from the city that everything is okay, and I can take a moment to appreciate where I'm at.
I carry this centered feeling with me throughout the rest of our trip and at the airport as we say goodbye and file into the security line. By the time I’m through, I think, “Welp, that was fun while it lasted!” I curse England and vow never to fly out of Heathrow again (unless I get one of those lead bags, in which case, we will see). Tears form at the corners of my eyes, and I take a few deep breaths to ground myself again, which doesn’t work. Breathing never works.1
I’m going to get lice on the plane, I conclude. My pictures are ruined, and I’m going to get lice.
Eight hours later, I return to Earth and Midwestern soil. I’m no longer miffed at England, or lice-ridden. Just jet-lagged. It's afternoon, and the film lab is still open, so once we're home and fed, I drive over and drop off my rolls of Kodak Ultramax, fully accepting whatever the outcome is.
A few days later, I get the pictures back. Drumroll: they're fine. No fogginess or visible indicators of damage. Maybe lacking some definition in the shadows (quite possibly a user error). But otherwise, A-OK.
It’s a clear reminder that my fears are often unfounded, and my sensitivities, while all-consuming at times, are not a sign of weakness. Like a roll of ISO 400 film, I’m more resilient than I think. 𓇢𓆸
Breathing sometimes works.
Such great storytelling once again, Al. Honestly, every time one of your essays ends, I'd like to turn the page to keep reading. I love how you make every ordinary moment sound interesting. Your little stories about your trip are relatable and amusing at the same time, except for the lice. I have never even thought about getting lice on a plane, but from now on I will. :) I definitely will cope with watching sad movies and listen to sad music as well. Somehow, getting weepy has always been part of a long airplane ride for me as well.
The description of the lady sitting next to you scrolling through her own selfies is just too good. There is a lot one can observe on airplanes sitting so close to strangers.
I am glad you had a nice time. The English country side sounds so dreamy and lovely. I have been to London, but never had the chance to explore more of England. One day, I hope.
Also, which small town in MN are you living in now?
Beautiful story and photographs, Al. I felt the same stress when I used to bring ISO 400 film with me and it had through to go through airport X-rays. I’d make sure to fly non-stop as I was so paranoid that multiple xray passes will surely ruin them. I’m so glad yours turned out well! Looking forward to more of your writing and photographs in 2024!