After more than a year, I’m still not used to the ease of travelling on a British passport; it is like a magic wand, you display your golden unicorn and lion, and the airport staff’s suspicions turn into smiles. I also notice that I am far less anxious when travelling on my own because I don’t have to run after anyone. I can take my time, and I am reminded that indeed I can sort myself out. I didn’t even need the printed stuff after all, I just followed the signs and didn’t struggle even once with screens (applause!). At one point my Tarot deck caused a delay, and my rucksack was stopped and searched, but the staff were so friendly they even said, Bet you’re a good Tarot reader, which put the stupidest smile on my face.

Because I was early, I had some time to explore the airport shops. I was happy to find two Mishima books at the bookshop, I didn’t own one of them, and purchased that, as I hadn’t brought any fiction with me anyway. I then went to a British souvenir shop to get some more presents for my niece and nephew and my close friend from back in the day, who also happens to live in Montreal now. As well as black tea in a red phone box and a set of William Morris hand creams, I picked a tiny bottle of spiced rum. I had some Diazepam for the flight, and I had no desire to mix alcohol with tranquilizers, but I couldn’t resist the cute little bottle and the promise of spice and rum. I thought I might even gift it to my nephew. When I was about to pay, however, the cashier asked for my ID. I produced my passport, and when she saw my year of birth, she screamed, and showed it to her colleague, which resulted in them screaming together, “1988?”

“Yes,” I boasted. “I’m turning 37 tomorrow!”

They seemed genuinely shocked, “You look about 21!”

I thanked them, but unfortunately, the interaction didn’t stop there, they also wanted to exhibit me to their other colleague who was standing at the other side of the shop. At this point, I had to turn around to show my presumably vampiric face to their colleague, a white woman who didn’t seem as impressed as her brown colleagues. I suddenly felt very hot and I left the shop quickly, even though the sellers were now asking me where I’m originally from, and what I fucking “eat”. I admit I was slightly irritated at this point. I sheltered in the Mishima bookshop, and thought about how much older than 37 I felt. I feel about 67 in my aching body and soul. Appearances can be beguiling. Three months after my mother’s death, my father told me that glowing skin has nothing to do with health; he informed me that my mother’s skin was glowing even on her deathbed. I think about my father’s tearful words on our terrace in Tehran every time someone compliments my skin or “youthfulness”. This incident also happened because I wasn’t wearing any make up, and on top of that, I was also wearing flats, which didn’t hide my height. I prefer to empower myself with make-up and platforms when I’m in public. Without them I think I look really vulnerable; I am too short, my face is too small, and the dark circles around my eyes make me look weak and sickly – if not outright bruised.

However, once on the plane, I needed neither the tranquilizers nor the spiced rum. For the first time in my life, I felt safe on a plane. The take-off was incredibly smooth, and the Air Canada pilot talked us through any minor turbulence in both French and English. The air staff constantly fed us free food and treats. I had pasta, lemon drizzle cake, pretzels, cola, tea, ginger ale, and at one point, they even offered red wine. I decided I already liked Canada. It was also good to be completely disconnected from the Internet for seven hours. During these cleansing hours, I read, wrote, napped, and watched a film. I was too excited to sleep though. I noticed they had a two-hour Jane Eyre film adaptation on the little screen. I watched it even though I hadn’t engaged with Jane Eyre in years. I first read the Persian translation of Jane Eyre when I was thirteen, then read the original book when I was twenty as part of my undergraduate studies in English literature. The only nasty surprise I got when watching the 2011 adaptation was that I had completely forgotten (made myself forget) that Mr Rochester loses his eyesight at the end of the book. How fucking tragic and on a metaphorical level, this was too much for my head; I was at the risk of getting pathetically tearful on the plane. Other than that, I absolutely loved this adaptation; I liked both lead actors as well as Judi Dench (obviously). If I recall correctly, the film also had some of the exact same lines from the book. I found the dialogue refreshingly old-fashioned, gothic, and romantic.

At the airport, I reunited with my beloved niece. I hadn’t seen her since February, and had missed her terribly. She informed me my birthday party was actually in a few hours and not the night after. Miraculously, this tired soldier felt ready, even energetic, for her early Canadian birthday party.