Sitting in the Luggage Rack

Story and photo by M.

The bus lurches forward in traffic and the standing passengers jostle for space.  The commuters in front of me keep bumping against my feet and I am not sure who feels more uncomfortable.  Dangling my legs out into the central aisle of the bus is clearly not working.  I pull my feet up into my chest and I receive a grateful smile from a woman in front of me.  Sitting in the luggage rack of the bus, I concede that I have chosen an unusual seat.  However, now that I have discovered this hidden-in-plain-sight option, it has proved quite useful on my travels across this new city.

Two months ago, I arrived in a new country with my new husband.  With heavy suitcases in tow, we landed at midnight in Argentina, the country that my husband calls home.  A purple beanie was promptly put on my head by one of our friendly welcomers and in the blur of fatigue, jet lag and the bracing cold of a winter’s night, we were ushered to a waiting car.

For me, the new is always so… uncomfortably new. Like someone turning the light on when you are fast asleep and you awake in a confused fog and not a little bit grumpy. There are of course those who exuberantly embrace their new environment like rolling down a grassy hill.  When they reach the bottom, they jump up ready to do it again, laughing off the grass stains across their clothes.  Of course, they probably don’t have a pollen allergy either. 

I too have these moments of hill rolling joy as I find small delights to smile in whilst walking through my local neighbourhood. Most recently, I have discovered an inordinate number of professional dog walkers. I find myself mesmerised by these people who manage to walk the pavements surrounded by large groups of compliant dogs.  Other things capture my attention with a sense of charm. I discover that there is a thriving industry of zapateros (cobblers) in the centre of Buenos Aires. The grand shuttered windows of 19th century buildings make my walks around the city especially enjoyable, and I look out for the pot plants and pigeons who vie for space on the high balconies above me. 

Some months before I moved, I made a goal to practice, “staying in my lane.”  I was between countries and anticipated this transition to extend for several months ahead.  So, like a fridge magnet slogan, my plan was to be curious, assume the best and be slow to judge. That was the plan.  Last month, I announced to my mentor that I was spectacularly failing – but as if I was holding a silver sharpie, I quickly added, “but there have been some small wins.” You are doing soul work, she says. And I agree.

As much as I want to be that person who throws off their coat with abandon and launches themselves down the first grassy hill that they see, I have discovered something that should not come as a surprise to me.  It seems that all this newness does something to my heart.  I feel disappointed and lonely.  Beginnings are rarely smooth but these initial weeks in South America have left me feeling overwhelmed.  I try to follow along in a conversation but find that I am tracking with just the general gist.  I pull out my phone and give Google a chance to translate the conversation, but it cannot compete with the varying accents and colloquial slang. 

I want to be understood and to connect but instead frustration and anger pour out. Disappointment seems to hover closely and somehow entangle itself into everything. The second flat we move into has a washing machine.  I am relieved but again my irritation seeps out when I realise it neither rinses nor spins. I do my best to lean into the late-night culture but feel irritable when I wake up in the morning having been robbed of my sleep. My messy heart reveals how deep some of my home values are and that I do not merge cultures as easily as I would like others to think I can. I should be able to cope better, I should know better. I feel like a failure, and I feel squeezed into a luggage rack that I don’t fit into.

One day I read the story of the woman who is caught in adultery. A nasty mob of men gather around the woman, seething with anger and the pretense of righteous indignation.  Thankfully, she is brought to Jesus who has been teaching that day in the temple.  Jesus speaks and the crowd slowly disperses. The crisis is averted, and the crumpled woman is left alone.  

“Woman, where are they? Has no-one condemned you?” Jesus asks. 

With power and gentleness, Jesus speaks over a woman whose past is stained.

“Neither do I condemn you.”

“What does Jesus see when he looks at you?” My mentor asks.  

“He is kinder than the kindest person I might ever hope to meet.” I reply.

I picture an apartment full of vibrant green leafed pot plants and imagine leaving for a summer trip but forgetting to arrange for someone to water my plants.  I return home and turn the key in the door, anticipating the sight of limp and dead plants scattered around the apartment.  To my surprise, they are not only alive but lack no moisture in their soil.  The plants I failed to water have been watered, the mess I left behind has been recreated and restored.  Amidst my own heart that feels cracked and dry, I trust that there are green shoots growing. Coming to Jesus, we are not condemned for our failures and mess. In my prayer journal, I write the words, “...come and whisper to me gently today.”

There is something strange about how newness fades.  The cacophony of all that is different and strange gradually drops in volume. There is no day that marks the moment when the strange starts to become familiar.  But I notice the small things. Spanish no longer sounds like a galloping pony.  The faces of neighbours become familiar, and we say hello as we walk past each other.  I no longer try to read every café chalk board in my neighbourhood, and I no longer register surprise when I see another laundromat. And as I walk the twenty blocks to get to Spanish class each day, I can now anticipate when to turn my head to peer into my favourite bakery window displays. Perhaps there are some things that I can see for their possibilities and their charm that others don’t. One day, as I was eating a pink lady apple on my way home, I saw a man walking down the street holding up a large, empty, gilded art frame in front of him. It perfectly framed his face. Are you kidding me? Surely everyone else can see this quirky moment of joy?  It was too good to be true and so I reached for my phone and snapped a quick photo, tickled pink that I captured the moment. 

So perhaps the luggage rack is not so bad.  How many people miss the opportunity to sit down on a crowded bus and people-watch in a semi-comfortable space because they did not consider it as a seating option?  Yet for the days when I feel the aloneness of sitting uncomfortably in a space where I don’t belong, I want to remember that he sees the discomfort and he whispers gently to me. As for our non-rinsing, non-spinning washing machine?  I caved. Now a relieved-me picks up a bag of freshly clean, dry clothes every week.

If this poem resonated with you, sign up to get honest stories in your inbox for free on Wednesdays from Christian women in Western Australia from March—November 👇🏻

M - Regular Contributor

M is currently living in Argentina (her husband’s home country) and learning Spanish. Until recently, she was an overseas cross-cultural worker, so she is now processing all the transitions whilst still in transition herself. She is grateful for acts of kindness and grace, friends who have prayed for her in seasons of loss and enjoys taking photos of beautiful doors. You can find more on Instagram @booksonfridays