About three and a half years ago, I went on my first transatlantic trip. I didn’t know it at the time, but that trip would shape the rest of my life.
Arriving in Iceland, I stood in an airport, frozen with panic. My phone was silent. The concierge desk empty. Hungry and tired from the long flight. I walked in circles looking for the pre-arranged shuttle bus. I took another walk around the center of the airport. Maybe this time I would see the buses. I saw buses but they weren’t mine. My shoulders slumped forward under the weight of the two backpacks I was carrying. I could feel beads of sweat forming on the spine of my back and under my arms. My hair fell loose from the bun sitting atop my head and my eyes never stopped moving as I searched for my bus.
A year later, I was in Barcelona, searching for a cathedral I wanted to see. I walked in circles. My phone GPS rerouting each time I changed directions. The blinking blue light an indicator that I was on the wrong path. After thirty minutes, I sat at a café and ordered a cold drink. The table rocked under the weight of my purse. The waitress brought me my drink, condensation running down the side of the glass. I drank it slowly, the hops settled on my lips; I licked it off. I crossed my legs, my foot swinging to the beat of the music I heard ahead of me. I closed my eyes listening; I could feel my lips form a smile.
I know what belonging looks like for me. What does belonging look like for other women?
That is the Geography of Connection.