Okay.
I’ve known for some time that I’d have to go back to the
States this year. Both of my credit
cards and, most importantly, my debit card expire in 2026. I haven’t gotten my mail in over a year. So, as much as I’ve put off this trip back
into the belly of the beast, it was time to book that flight.
And my anxiety just grew in the days before the flight. Though I haven’t lived in the States
full-time since March of 2023, I’ve been keeping track of what’s going on in
the country and none of it is good.
Everything is too expensive, people are losing their jobs as well as
their homes and their rights, the violence is only escalating, and oh yeah – government
sponsored murder is now a thing.
Actually, it was always a thing. It’s just gotten really overt in the last
couple of years.
I had seen the horror stories of people getting snatched at
airports for no good reason. And,
despite having a valid passport as a citizen, I’m still a brown woman entering
an increasingly racist country. And I
have a very vivid imagination.
I had to keep that in check, though, deciding instead to
focus on the particulars of the trip. I
already knew from my last time to Georgia that I would not be renting a car
again. Too expensive and too stressful
to drive on those roads especially since I haven’t been behind the wheel of a
car since my last visit (and don’t miss it.).
No car in car-centric Atlanta meant I needed to book a hotel by the
airport that provided a shuttle so that I’d have access to MARTA (public
transport).
The one saving grace of the trip is that the ticket would be
round-trip. Still insanely expensive,
but at least I could look forward to returning.
I mentioned this to the lovely taxi driver who picked me up
from my apartment. His name is Skander
and we had a nice chat as he drove me to the airport. He told me about his travels and his family
while I told him about my plans to live in Tirana. We both agreed that neither of our lives were
or would be fancy, but the city is safe, cheap, and a good place to live. In this insane world, it’s the simple things
that matter most.
I have to mention that he apologized for his English not
being that great. I kind of hate when
the natives do that. I’m in their
country. I need to learn their
language. I told him his English was
excellent compared to my non-existent Albanian.
Just looking at the written language makes my old brain say ‘nope’. And that whole thing of having a q without a
u is just tripping me up. I don’t like that
but I will keep trying.
This was not my first trip on Lufthansa but it was my first time traveling them over the pond. I have to say I’m impressed. The seats didn’t numb my butt, they served a very nice white wine, and I dug the hot towel service.
What I didn’t dig so much was my seating arrangement. The flight attendant checked my seat number
when I boarded and mentioned that he didn’t like that seat. Okay.
I quickly found out why when the screen for the seat would not
operate. So I was stuck in the middle of
a full row with no entertainment. And in
the row just across from me sat a kid who screamed (not cried, screamed) during
most of the flight. Lovely.
Since we landed in D.C. before I headed to Atlanta, I
skipped the usually long lines for passport control in that airport. I was very glad to not see the orange gestapo
anywhere in either location. That eased
some of my anxiety as I tried to figure out where to meet the hotel shuttle. It was my first time taking one in Atlanta so
it took me a minute to get my bearings.
The hotel was … fine.
The room was decent enough and I appreciated the lack of carpeting. Along with having a shuttle, I made sure the
place also had a free breakfast as there was little else around for food. The spread was barebones, but what are you
gonna do?
MARTA has made some changes.
While I was fumbling at the ticket machines, a nice man came over and
told me that the machines no longer work.
Now all you have to do is press your credit/debit card to the gate and get
charged that way. Huh. Just like in Singapore. Cool.
Taking the train to the end of the line, I ended up as close to my destinations as I could get. Then it was time to find a car. The cab driver wanted to charge me $90 just to go the 20 miles to the post office. I immediately got out of his car and ordered an Uber. The genial woman who picked me up showed me how to arrange for multiple stops on the app, setting me up to hit the post office, my storage unit, and then the final drop off at a phone repair place. The whole trip cost about $120.
Still outrageous, but it beats paying 3 times that much to
rent a car for 3 days.
I had accumulated so much junk mail over the year that it
could no longer fit in my small box. I
had to take the note left in the empty box to the front desk to receive the
bucket full of mail. I ditched most of
it as useless while the few pieces of mail that I needed all arrived as
expected which was a relief. The second
stop at my storage unit just reminded me again of how long it’s been since my
last visit. I initially went to the wrong
unit, then couldn’t get the door up. The
driver had to remind me to pull the handle back first. Dang, I’m getting old.
So is the storage unit, apparently. The door was fighting me to open and close it
as it appears to be rusting. I had hoped
for this to be the last time I’d need it but …
Last stop at the phone repair place. I had to search this place out specifically
as so few people (even in the U.S.) carry batteries for my phone. And while I wasn’t happy that the price was
double what I would have paid in Portugal, at least these folks actually
replaced the battery. The phone doesn’t retain
a charge like it was brand new, but the battery life is vastly improved. And still it was cheaper than buying a new phone. I’m trying to put that off for as long as
possible.
While waiting for my phone, I hit the Wendy’s across the
street for old time’s sake. It used to be
my favorite fast-food place and while I didn’t exactly miss it while across the
pond, it still made me nostalgic for the life I’d left behind. A junior Baconator is still greasy, overpriced
goodness.
The next day had me back on MARTA to do some shopping. You know that Treehouse of Horror episode of The
Simpsons where Homer ends up in the real world while remaining his animated 3D
self? Yeah. That’s kinda how I felt walking along the
streets of Buckhead. While it was nice
to see so many other black folk, I still felt like an alien. I really don’t belong to this place anymore.
After spending too much money for some toiletries (after dropping
even more coin for books the previous day), I spent still more green at a
Cheesecake Factory for a mediocre lunch and an excellent Paloma. Everything really is outrageously expensive
in the country. I don’t know how folks
are surviving.
Even still, this trip was less expensive than trips in the past. I didn’t do any clothing or shoe shopping,
picking out clothes from my storage unit instead. I ate as little as possible to both save
money and not get sick (yeah, I heard about the recent cases of explosive diarrhea
– seriously, America?!). Fortunately, there
were no issues there, thank goodness. And,
again, I saved money (and my nervous system) by not renting a car.
I had a moment of panic with my new debit card. I had activated it following instructions, but
it still didn’t work. I tried at several
spots, then figured I had to get money out first. Nothing was working. I got back to the hotel to call for help and was
finally able to get it activated.
I really don’t need any more panic moments. I was already freaked out by being in the country. I don’t need more reminders of why I left.
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