It arrives in the mail with directions informing me whom I
am to meet once I arrive off the plane. A glossed sheet with the words OUR
ITINERARY scribed on the front, a cadre of a British infantry guards. The
itinerary is glossed and shiny, professional—a constitutional via corporate America
congratulating us for wining the award. It arrives with a cursory note detailing
everything we can expect to find. There is a packet in which are tickets for
our domestic flights are kept. The ticket for our flight overseas is being
taken care of by parade. There is a back pack that we are instructed to wear at
the airports on route to Newark so that we can recognize other YC
finalists. There is also a fanny hip
back which I just blatantly out of principle refuse to wear. Both articles of luggage
are constellation-less black and have the PARADE logo embroidered on them in
the red lettering.
Mom says that she thinks the hip-pack
is pretty neat. I tell her that I will never wear it out of principle.
There are dual luggage tags with the flaring YOUNG COLUMBUS emblem blazoned like a fiery compass in the center as if an unblinking eye. One
for our PARADE logo’d backpack and one for our suitcase. There also are three
pages informing us what items we need to pack for our incumbent sojourn as well as a list of rules
what Young Columbus and the manner in which we as world traveling delegates are expected to conduct
ourselves. I pick up the glossed sheath of exposition and
begin to read. This is what I have waited for. Both dad and mom seem to flank
me on either side of the couch as we go over my itinerary. We land at London but are imminently
chartered from Heathrow towards Stratford-on-Avon where it appears that we will
set up camp for the first four days. We will be traversing around the British
country side, taking in landscapes I have never heard of—Warrick castle and
Blenheim palace as well as dual afternoons in Bath England and Oxford
University respectively before the remainder of out tour is picked up adjourning to London.
I
make an oral note telling my parents that I just can’t wait to see London.
My
parents continue to peruse over my itinerary. Dad holds the list of what male
Young Columbus recipients are expected to pack. Mom says look you guys will be
going to Harrods and Madame Tusuads and even spending the afternoon at Windsor
castle. Mom then notes again that she shares the same birthday as the queen. Dad
points at the itinerary and proclaims that it looks like we are scheduled to
have meeting with several dignitaries.
“The
Lord Mayor of Stratford-on-Avon and the Lord mayor of London and the American
ambassador.”
Mom then tells me wow, Dave.
Wow
The mid-inlet of the brochure, what is referred to as the YC
93 news letter. In thick blue
capitalized font there is a proclamation inviting us to meet counselors. They
are college students less than a decade older than even the youngest YC
recipient. They come from Northwestern, Georgetown and Springfield College. The
come from the University of Michigan. They come from Furman College, from the
University of North Carolina and the University of Tennessee. They are all
clean cut and academically privileged. They somehow all seem to be emblematic
of the future that awaits us.
A life that teems
with promise.
Mom tells me that they all look like fine and responsible
young men and women. I look at each window, a still-life portrait from
Picasso’s blue period and ponder which counselor will escort me on the trip
that will alter the periphery of my life on this planet.
Dad tells me that they all seem to have graduated from
expensive colleges and don’t you think they probably just could have gotten
their pre-rec’s out of the way at a junior college first or something.
“I wonder if any of them have ever been overseas before?” I
ask my mom. Interiorly I wonder if they
were awarded the contest in the same fashion in which I did. If they had
to present themselves in front of a panel and delineate why they were deserving
of chauffeuring an arbitrary flock of teenagers through Europe.
“Which one do you think is yours?” My sister Beth inquires.
“I don’t know. I imagine it will probably be a male.”
I assess the slopes of each of their faces. I look at their eyes, hinting with promise. I
wonder how they are experiencing the bulk of their collegiate trajectory. I
wonder what they are like. I wonder what they know.
“They look like fine young men and women.” My father notes
again. Adding that I am sure I will meet several mentors on the trip indeed.
***
I decide to call Nat one final time. I have called twice and both times he was not around so I left a message. Someone who appears to be his sister picks up the phone. He is a grade older than Renae but a grade younger than Dawn Michelle. He is a junior.
I use my mature voice. For some
reason I keep on internally referring to him as Nate. It’s only when I think of
the bug that I allude to his as gnat.
“Hi, May I speak with Gnat,
Please…”
I want to compare itineraries. I
want to ask him if he is pumped.
From the opposite end of the phone
there is a hello.
I say hello. I say gnat. There is a
warbling acknowledgement that sounds like he is brushing his teeth with
sandpaper.
“I say hey, this is David from
Peoria, we’re going to be going to England in a few weeks and I just thought I
call to see if you were….”
Before I can finish speaking the
phone hiccups into an audible click before emptying out into a vacant drone. I
don’t understand what I could have possibly done to piss my future Young
Columbus brother off. I decide to call again. His voice picks up. I remember my
manners. I say hello. When I say may I speak with Nat the call hangs up again.
“It’s probably a bad reception.” Mom
notes, stating that Nat does live in rural Tazewell county.
“Yeah,” I accede to the warm platter
of my mother’s voice, “Probably a bad reception indeed.”