A North American TCK in Russia
My earliest childhood memory is a jumbled concoction of airport images. Rough landings on rocky tarmac and the irritatingly redundant voices over the loudspeaker announcing gate changes. Delayed departure times. Layovers, turbulence and sleeping on leather benches — the arm-rest sharply stabbing me in the ribs. Duty-free perfume samples. Metal detectors. Overweight luggage. Airsick bags. Passport control — my eyes heavy and legs shaky, as I slowly waddle forward in the crowd, waiting for my turn. A deep grumbling in my stomach lets me know I’m either hungry or nauseated.