Leaves shake on the trees as the October breeze dances through the street. People hurry every which way. Everyone is going somewhere: kids to school, adults to work, even very little kids are running to keep up with their parents taking them to daycare before they themselves hustle to work. Cars go down the street far faster than they should, disturbing the orange leaves that fell there last night. What would they think if they knew I was sitting on my counter watching them? My hands grip the cup that was previously almost too hot to hold, firmly. It has long gone cold but there is no use to waste tea, so down the hatch it goes.
My heavy eyes glance at the clock and immediately widen in a panic. I have to be at the airport in one hour and it’s a half hour drive! Quickly I set my cup down and sprint down the hallway. I shove my neat stacks into my carry on and change out of my jammies into some real clothes: ripped jeans, grey sweater, messy bun, glasses, pretty basic. I grab my olive coat, backpack, purse, and suitcase. Lock the door and out I go. That is until I look down and see my toes. After I go back and cover them up with shoes I race back down the hall, throw everything in the trunk of my car, and off I go to the Minneapolis-St. Paul airport.
I love flying. Getting perspective of everything yet not being close enough to see anything. You see the birds in their natural state, always going somewhere - in this case trying to get south for the winter. The world is so much quieter up high. The clouds move without a sound, and the birds don’t chirp this high up. Just the lullaby hum of the engines. When I close my eyes all I feel is the rush. Standing at the edge of a plane, trying to remember the safety stuff while my heart is pounding in my ears. A deep breath and I’m falling. The island looks smaller. The little land created by explosive rock. The trees are smaller from up here and the people, insignificant. Wind hitting my face, the ocean air, island food, the freedom. The sensation of flying, having wings and not having to be on someone else's schedule. Knowing there is nothing in the world like falling. Completely giving into gravity. Putting your trust in the earth. All too soon, those feelings vanish, and I'm just a lost girl on a plane. The same quiet girl teachers forgot about. The same little girl that pretended she could fly, and believed in herself enough to break her leg and sprained her wrist jumping off her treehouse railing. The girl who acted up one time in 7th grade to be noticed only to be scolded because “this is not how someone like you should act.” Except now I'm just a quiet, insignificant, but equally lost adult on a plane.
Once I land, I get my luggage and rental and finally leave the airport. I'm greeted with a chilly breeze and falling leaves. The vacation rental is small, big enough for one or maybe two people. It's right in the area of locals. I don’t go places to be surrounded by rich, obnoxious Americans. I go to be with the people. See how they live, what they do for fun. I go to visit the underground coffee shops, find a used book stores, bike ride in hidden areas. I don’t want to vacation, I want to be someone else for a few weeks.
Of course I do some “touristy” activities. Who could turn down a canal ride? Stretched out on a bench in a boat made for five takes me back to the Caribbean. The sun just beginning to rise above the horizon. The wind pushing the sail, nagging it to go this way or that. The lapping waters against the boat, salty air, a gentle rocking, and a great book. Dr. Franklin’s Island by Gwyneth Jones, a young adult science fiction book about three teens that get stuck on a deserted island, and kidnapped by a scientist that wants to turn them into animals. Sounds weird but it was my favorite growing up. The sky above me turns a bright pink with purple tendrils and then suddenly it crashes into blue again, and I’m back in Amsterdam.
“Hey miss! You alright?” The guide smiles. His big white teeth contrast his dark complexion, obviously not from here.
“Oh yeah! Sorry! Just daydreaming a bit!”
“You do that often?” Now I can hear the Jamaican/British accent. I quite like it.
“Daydream?” Yes. “No, not too often.” LIES! “Only when I'm at peace.” Somehow my mind is rolling its eyes at me.
“Glad you’re at peace.”

That night after dinner at some cafe I found walking around, I change into some yoga pants that have never been used for yoga and an old high school shirt and crawl under the covers. That night I have a dream I haven’t had in awhile. I’m flying next to Peter Pan of all characters! Below us is the sail boat, then the parachute, and then the canal boat. He guides me across a map, then to my old elementary school. For the next few days Amsterdam feels less magical and I’m glad to be going back to the airport.

Back in my apartment, sitting on the same counter, looking out the same window, drinking tea from the same mug, my life is unchanged. The only difference is I am out of money. So today I will be one of those people with a boring job but still hurrying to get there.
I work as a substitute ASL interpreter at elementary schools with deaf kids. Meaning I don’t deal with tons of nasty children, their bad attitudes, annoying stories and jokes, and sticky hands. I only have to deal with one. Don’t get me wrong, I love interpreting. I love being able to help a student one on one and help them understand and learn a second language. They always get so excited when they understand something because they live in a world where they don’t understand half the things that go on. Sometimes they get frustrated and decide to take it out on me. They are still small so they don’t understand healthy communication so it’s a lot of kicking and hitting when they are irritated.
I don’t like kids if anyone was wondering. They are a constant reminder of my parents who weren’t the greatest people to ever live. They always expected more from me even though I was a straight A student. Always trying to push me into being an adult, even at 12. Then went so far as to kick me out at 20 because I didn’t know who I was. I haven’t spoke to them since, After two months of being back, the mundaneness of everyday life was beginning to drive me towards insanity.
Suddenly I’m storming into my boss's office.
“I’m done!” I burst in. She is sitting there with a hand in a bag of Cheetos, now looking quite startled.
“What?”
“I said I’m done! I quit! And no, I'm not giving you two weeks notice, I’m gone today!” My mind is racing, no logical thought is forming. My breath is heavy, heart pounding. “I’m not taking care of those kids anymore.”
“You have to give us two weeks!”
“Legally I don’t. No federal or state law states that I must give you a two weeks notice.” Exciting dramatically, heel-toe-heel-toe. I don’t know what I’m going to do but I’ve got one last place to look for myself.
It takes another two months to get enough money, doing random jobs, some cleaning, a bit of tutoring, but I finally get on the plane to Ireland.
The first step into the winter air is surprisingly welcoming. It’s bitterly cold, but the snow falls in a shimmering sprinkle. I could imagine it surrounded by a small glass dome, glitter falling every time it gets shook with snowmen and people glued to an ice rink. The rental I’m staying in has the most beautiful bronze fireplace. The flames licking each wall and piece of wood. How many licks would it take to get to the center? I silently laugh to myself. Warm blankets draped over every piece of furniture designed to keep the heat in. A picture window directly across from the kitchen, providing plenty of calming light. Paired with a good cup of tea, this is the first time I’ve felt at home anywhere. 
Over the week, I cancel my returning ticket. I have my best friend box up my stuff and send it here. I print off multiple resumes and hand them out everywhere I see. That is, after getting a visa which is surprisingly easy. That night I have a familiar dream. I am flying next to Peter Pan, below me is the sailboat, the parachute, the canal boat, the boots I wore on the Alps, and finally we land, right where I am supposed to be.
Three months later I’ve got a flat that's small and looks exactly like my old one. My job at a local pub has caused me to discover a love for distilled things. I regularly go on distillery tours and have even tried out a bit of homebrewing to explore that realm.
Seven Years Later
Off the coast of Ireland where the waves crash on rocks, boats are out sailing in the chilling winds. On top of a cliff sits a building. The bricks are rough but newly mortared. A lighthouse pokes out from behind. Picture windows across the front to give anyone that’s there a perfect view of the ocean. The fog begins to rise and reveal dark green hills behind the new distillery with a bright red ribbon across the door. I stand right in front, press with flashing  cameras and one hand on a pair of giant scissors next to my husbands’ while our other hands are clasped together. With a smile, we cut the ribbon thus opening The Lost Distillery. We all celebrate with a drink from the first bottle of whiskey made there.
“Throughout my struggles and wonder-filled travels, through the ups and the less than pretty moments, it was the experiences, good or bad, that shaped me and helped me discover who I am. All the days at a job I was indifferent about, but had because it paid well, my parents kicking me out, being too broke to pay my bills sometimes - everything has lead to this moment. Because you really don’t know what you love until you’ve tried everything.” I raise my glass. “So here’s to the kids that believe in themselves, to the teenagers that feel like they are drowning in their future. Here’s to the lost girls and all of the wonderful things they will do!” A clatter of glasses follow and tears form in my eyes.
Here’s to the girls like me, I think.