MAHDI: Capitol to Capital

“Welcome, to the United States.” The television blared to life as I stood in line half asleep.

For anyone who has had the pleasure of going through passport control in America, you have enjoyed the informational video that plays from numerous plasma screens as you wait in line. You see panoramic shots of various landscapes and a diverse array of families, professionals and groups of hospitable-looking people. It’s an endearing ode to a country that’s built on the values of freedom and opportunity … the first five times you see it, that is. When you can recite all the dialogue after standing in line for close to an hour and a half it becomes significantly less entertaining.

This was the scene that greeted me when I arrived back from my week home in London this spring break. I stared blankly at the ceiling as I dragged my bag along the floor; in my other hand I held an assortment of Fortnum and Mason biscuits that rattled against one another in a duty free bag. I had left what had grown familiar to me — newfound friends and an adopted family in our travel group, a home far away from the din of American politics. The descent in front of the London skyline was bittersweet; there is no feeling comparable to returning to your own home after months away. Yet I found myself missing the small details of D.C., like being able to saunter to the monuments whenever I felt in need of some inspiration, even interning everyday from 9 to 5. As I woke up to the plane thudding onto the Heathrow tarmac, drizzling rain pelting the plane window, I wasn’t feeling the “spring break, woo!” vibe that had gripped everyone else.

That soon changed as I was once more in the company of family and friends that had long preceded my hectic weeks in Washington. Eager to show a close friend the London I had grown accustomed to, I made the overdue pilgrimage back to my old high school. As I stepped through those sliding doors for the first time in years, I was overwhelmed. Students I had never seen before yelled to their friends in familiar hallways. I saw the successors to the various cliques that had made up the tapestry of high school in my day — if you ever want to feel ancient, go back to high school. I imagine this is what being caught in two alternate universes would feel like: You recognize where you are, but you recognize nothing else.

My high school’s claim to fame was (and is) its proximity to the legendary Abbey Road. The disgusting weather of London would not deter us from arriving at the zebra crossing, which was already inundated with other tourists trying to re-create the iconic Beatles image outside of the recording studio. There was a particularly disgruntled group of students who stood on the pavement for hours waiting for the precise moment when traffic would ease and they could obtain their elusive shot. I cross the street unfazed and go toward the wall outside Abbey Road Studios. To me, the crossing was a part of my memories of going out for filling Thai food on school afternoons, when we thought we were so independent because we could leave school as we pleased. Graffiti confronts you from atop the white paint. Some notable messages include names written in hearts and a shout out to a “biddy reunion.” Even approximately 3,000 miles away from America, some trends endure the distance. I take a gel pen from my purse and attempt to leave my mark. I began to understand how obnoxious my inner tourist must be to Washingtonians.

My last night in London finally arrived. I was seen off by two crazed men at a venue in Soho who performed their version of the Harlem Shake with cardboard boxes on their heads and a baseball bat as they flung plastic balls and chunks of ice into the crowd. I walked by the glowing Houses of Parliament and Westminster Abbey as I prepared to board my flight the next morning. I had barely unpacked my suitcase. Leaving was easy.

I snapped out of my nostalgic reminiscing when I was called up to the immigration officer’s desk. He looked morose as he stamped my passport and had me press my fingers to the fingerprint scanner. In an attempt to lighten the mood, I asked him how his day was going.

“Well, I’m here,” he replied, even more despondent than before. But in spite of his lackluster outlook on life, I wished him a nice day as I left the airport and settled into the cab. The Washington Monument and Lincoln Memorial came into view. Inhaling a deep breath, I sat back and admired the view.

Sofiya Mahdi is weekly columnist for the Daily Free Press, and a junior in the College of Arts and Sciences studying abroad in Washington, D.C. She can be reached at sofiya218@gmail.com.