8/20/2012- Hardest Part of Living Abroad (Nuuk, Greenland)

In 2007 before I boarded the MV Explorer and embarked on Semester at Sea, I made an agreement with my family; if anything were to happen to anyone, under no circumstances was I to leave or return home. Although unspoken, each of us knew that it was in reference to my grandfather, who had been suffering from Parkinson's for years and had come to the edge of death a number of times. How would it be when that time came?, I wondered as I boarded. Would it come? Would I keep my word or want to be there for my family?

Throughout the subsequent months I faced these moral questions in a number of forums, though luckily never outright. A cliche'd cry on the top deck during a storm after discovering a friend's father had passed and receiving a call from my mother that dropped and having to wait ten minutes in silence at 2am knowing someone had died and not whom were two of the most poignant (it was our dog, Sailor, in the second). However none were as moving as a story went around the ship during the voyage-that a girl had found out only a week into the journey that her brother had been killed in an automobile accident, and although she returned home for the funeral, her family pushed her to fly to the next port and meet the ship, continuing her journey in her brother's memory. It wasn't until one of the final nights that this story hit home for everyone; the majority of the ship gathered for kareoke in the main hall, and she stood up to tell her story and sing 'You Raise Me Up' in front of the entire ship. Not a dry eye in the house became a literal expression that night, not just a saying.

Given the buildup five years ago and how much I had come to prepare myself and expect the inevitable death of my grandfather while abroad on the Explorer, it came as a glancing blow yesterday morning when, upon waking up at 0645 to speak to a friend overseas, I logged onto Facebook and saw a single note from one of my uncles:

sends heartfelt sympathies out to the Paterson clan....we'll miss you Mampa.....:(

I blinked a few times, staring at the screen. There was a confusion; Mampa? Paterson clan? That was my grandfather, of course, but...

Oh, he must have passed away last night, my mind calmly replied. You should probably text your mother, or is calling better? Does she know? If she doesn't how is it best to break the news? He wouldn't put it online unless he was sure, I suppose. I should log onto the Air Greenland site and see if there are any flights which would get me back to the US in the next few days; I don't think the Reyjkavik flights leave for another few days though, so will probably need to look into going back to Copenhagen then Boston? Do they have direct flights on that route? Do I have enough money to buy a ticket in my account, or should I contact Dad first to see? I really should call Mom...

I texted my mother with a simple 'I love you' to see if she was awake, or if she knew. Moments later she called my US phone, and I answered as best I knew how; instead of a hello, with love, and an awkward 'how are you' which was responded to with a like 'Im alright' or something equally false and devoid. In that second we each knew the other was aware of what had transpired, and fell into tears of emotion from saying it (in my case) for the first time.

After assuring her I was fine (damning the fact that no matter how calm I actually am and how accepting of something I can be inside, I still cry when saying things for the first time, which did nothing except to worry her) I promised to try and get ahold of Lee, who was refusing to answer his US phone and had not yet given anyone his Australian phone number so that she could try to sleep a few more hours.

The next few hours were a whirlwind; getting ahold of Lee online and needing to tell him through Gchat (still better than Facebook?), speaking to my father about how Mom would handle everything, fielding two more calls from my grandmother and mother later in the day, writing an email to them about my favorite memory of Mampa, and taking a few trips into town to get air and walk all blended together as the hours stretched on.

I thought back, once again and so many times, to the conversation I'd had with all of them five and a half years ago; that no matter what happened, where I was, how bad it could be, that I would not come home. The circumstances were different now; I wasn't in the middle of the ocean or enrolled in classes this time around, for one. Lee is living in Australia now, meaning that Mom needs to handle this without either of her children even in the same country. Despite my grandmother's initial comment to me that I'd 'better damn well not even think about coming back for the funeral' when she picked up the phone, all of this ran though my head.

In the final call of the night, Mom repeatedly asked me if I was okay, being alone in a foreign country dealing with everything. Despite my trying, it was impossible to reassure her that I was really okay; that it comes almost as a comfort knowing he's passed on after fighting so hard for so long against a disease for which there is no cure. He beat the odds so many times that having Mampa around this long is a miracle in itself. That after a few seconds of the initial emotional outburst of losing the only grandfather I ever knew, all that was on my mind was concern for THEM, for my family, when I couldn't be there for them and to be a rock.

The hardest part about losing someone you love while being so far from home isn't being alone, or not being there. It's not being able to be there for your family, at least for me. Knowing that even if I were to return it would be over $2500 for plane tickets, require me to have the very least two to three layovers (there are no Iceland or Canada flights left before the funeral as they run from Nuuk only twice a week, and no direct flights to the US, so it would need to be through Kangerlussuaq and Copenhagen) and take me at least 24 hours (though days is a better estimate).

It comes down to trust; trusting that my family will be there for my grandmother and for my mother when I cannot be.

I suppose this is the hardest part about living abroad...

8/7/2012- Defining Home (Tasiilaq, East Greenland)

Home…

                The hardest question I’ve been asked living in Greenland is the one everyone first asks— “where is home for you?”

Luckily the Danish to English translation puts it is ‘where are you from’, which is easier to answer, though not by much. Were I to give the long answer to a non-American—I was born in Connecticut (then have to clarify by saying the area between New York and Boston when the inevitable blank stares follow), moved to Washington, DC for university and the first few years of my career, moved to Copenhagen, Denmark for work in April and now am residing in Nuuk—they would be confused.

However, this discounts a few facts; namely, that I’ve lived in Virginia the past 3 years, and DC the 2 before that. That even my permanent residence is a big question mark—with my passport based in and my mail forwarded to my parents’ address in Connecticut, my driver’s license and voter registration at an occupied house I once rented in Virginia, and my visa paperwork for Greenland and Denmark claiming I reside at my work address in Nuuk, there is no actual legal answer.

While traveling in Greenland, I answer that my home is in Nuuk, as that lends credibility to my working for another country’s representation, particularly while surveying visitors from around the world who may not be as open to Americans representing another country’s boards and interests. Technically, this is true, as I am paying taxes built into my salary here and have a residence within the city.

Home, though, to me? Home is tangible. If I had to choose a place, it would be DC and the DMV (DC, Maryland, Virginia) area as a whole as it is where my friends are. Yet, at least for now, home is in the Arctic where I don’t speak the official language and my residence card is still held up by embassy paperwork. 

-Small house in Tasiilaq, East Greenland

8/01/2012- Failed Attempt to Fly (Kulusuk?, Greenland)

Greenland is dictated by the weather—and in over two months living here, I have seen many examples of this firsthand. Sure, you can cite examples of going on the sledges when the ice is thickest or good shipments to the settlements and towns being contingent on the ice situation in the fjords. Even working in tourism it's evident as there are a lot of peoblems with operators cancelling excursions on days with good fishing, or cruise ships changing calls or berthing due to icebergs in the harbors year round.

So I'm writing this, not surprised in the least, on a flight from Kulusuk in East Greenland to Nuuk—except we left Nuuk at 0600 this morning.

After waking up at 0430 to be at the airport by 0515 to check into my flight (without even needing to show an ID or receipt to get my boarding pass this time, just provide my name), taking off at 0600 and arriving to the edge of the east coast by 0730, the 20 of so of us on the flight realized the odds were not in our favor. As we descended below the cloud cover and East Greenland's signature snowcapped mountains came into view, so did a solid layer of white fog just below the peaks. Although a stunning visual to see mountains fighting through a flowing sea of white, it did not bode well for landing.

As expected, the pilot announced a few minutes later (although I'm not sure why he didn't simply turn around and tell us as the door to the cockpit had been open the entire flight) to tell us in Greenlandic and Danish (and a quick version in English after the flight attendent made note there was an 'English talker' onboard) that we were in (admittedly the world's most beautiful) holding pattern.

((Yes, I just broke the world record for using the most parenthesis in a single sentence))

The calm I was feeling promptly broke when, a moment later, the pilot told us 'we are going to try and land through it, and will pull up if we see something that shouldn't be there' and put he wheels of our Dash-8 down. All the while, we couldn't see more than five feet through the fog.

At this point I should mention that just this week I sat in on an interview a German journalist was conducting with an Air Greenland pilot—who did not seem to grasp the idea of too much information and happily told us not only about why there had been accidents in the past, but how he 'longed for a challenge while flying' because the routes here apparently bore the pilots. The comments seemed amusing at the time—but not while attempting to land in no visibility while replaying his comments about landing in no visibility in Greenland being vastly more difficult than anywhere else in the world as the angles and mountains leave a smaller margin of error than the instruments allow for.

Luckily (though not so much for my nerves and stomach), the pilots decided last second to pull up hard, giving me a great sideways view of a mountaintop. They then let us know they weren't going to try again and that we needed to go to the nearest airport in the country with an airstrip to land—which happened to be back to Nuuk, on the other side of the country, as all other towns and settlements on the east coast only have heliports.

Strangely (to me as an American), the 20 or so other passengers (17 native Greenlandic and a 3 person Danish party) all smiled and laughed, before simply asking the flight attendent for more coffee. She wasn't asked about alternate flights or times or compensation—and she seemed genuinely surprised when I asked her how often our flight ran weeky (twice). 'They'll arrange something for you all; maybe tonight, or tomorrow possibly' she said calmly before walking back to the front to take pictures out one of the windows herself.

*

After landing two hours later, I was informed by the agents at the desk that they would call me at 1900 that night and they had booked me a hotel, sending me on my way back to my apartment in a taxi (with, I kid you not, a piece of paper from the airline to give to the driver saying 'we owe you ___' for him to fill in later and collect from them) after finding out I lived in Nuuk. Hours later, I got a call from operations letting me know they couldn't arrange another flight until Friday morning—two days after my original flight.

That flight, however, made it in record time.