“You smell that? That’s Costa Rican air!” I say to Kyani, taking in the moment. “No, that’s just some old guy’s fart.” We both laugh hysterically while sucking up the stale airplane air we were stuck on. I switched off my seat display, to find myself getting lost in the eighty’s style blue pattern that covered the chair in front of me. “You okay?” Kyani asked, “Yeah, I’m just ready to get off and get out of the airport.”
Everyone on the plane start shuffling around, anxious to get off this stuffy tin can. “We are all going to meet at customs!” My teacher announced to the group. I looked to Kyani for the look of reassurance, knowing that neither of us knew what we were doing, and after the six-hour delay we suffered, trying to roam a foreign airport at 12am didn’t seem like the most exciting of endeavors. The flight attendants finally open the exit and the crowd shifted forward. We entered the jet bridge
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Before I knew, it was my turn. As I walked toward the big glass white-lined box containing the tough, angry faced lady with huge wrinkles surrounding her lips, I started to get sweaty, my heart started to pump, and I glanced at the agent with my passport held up. The lady nodded her head and I slid my passport her way. The counter was a cold stainless steel, and the move made a ringing noise from the metal. A quizzical stare forms on her face as she said “¿Eres de aquí?” She raised her eyebrow and tilted her head. Eres de aquí, what? “¿Sí?” I said with a confused demeanor. “No you aren’t señor, you are in the wrong line.” She spoke in a stern and somewhat annoyed tone. Oh no! My cover is blown, what do I do! I looked to my right to see my teacher Joann rushing toward me, shaking her head. She walked up the counter and began apologizing for my
In this piece, the author, Luke Mogelson, uses a great deal of pathos. In one instance, Mogelson describes when Villanueva crossed the border for the first time when he initially entered
In her essay “Always Living in Spanish,” Marjorie Agosin justifies her preference for writing in Spanish as surviving to culture shock, a reminder of her childhood, and a vivid experience of her senses. As a member of an immigrant family, Marjorie Agosin deals with the sorrow and pain of leaving behind her native land to migrate from Chile to United States. She illustrates the frustrations of “...one who writes in Spanish and lives in translation” (167). During her teenage years, Agosin discovers writing in Spanish as the only getaway to escape from constant discrimination, because “... [her] poor English and [her] accent were the cause of ridicule and insult” (167). For this reason, in such times of emotional turmoil, the author decides that
I was carrying my whole life with me, as I walked towards the aircraft. I was carrying two suitcases, filled mainly with clothes and books. I know they were less than 20 kilograms because that was the permissible weight. I could not feel their weight as they were on the trolley. I had a backpack on my shoulders. It contained some eatables, some clothes, a novel, some magazines, a portable CD player, some CDS, a deck of cards, and an inflatable pillow. I was well prepared for my long flight. In my hand I carried as brown leather case containing my passport, visa, and all other personal documents and papers. If I were to lose that case, technically I would cease to exist. Other than that, I had a tennis racket slung over my left shoulder. In short, I was carrying almost all my belongings with me. But that was not all I was taking with me. I was carrying with me memories of 18 years. Things and incidents, long forgotten, resurfaced in my mind, with incredible detail. Every face around me reminded me of uncountable incidents. I was carrying with me a sense of tremendous loss. But, at the same time, I was also carrying with me hope and excitement. A new world called me, and I was looking forward to go there. To protect me in this new place, I had a holy red thread tied on my wrist. That was the explanation my Mom had given me when she was tying it. Though I did not necessarily agree with her, looking at the thread did bring a warm feeling in my heart. It symbolized the love and blessings of my parents which I carried with me, wherever I went.
Human habitation can be traced back more than 10,000 years but it appears Costa Rica was sparsely populated and a relative backwater in the pre-Columbian era. There is little sign of major communities and none of the impressive stone architecture that characterized the more advanced civilizations of Mesoamerica to the north and the Andes to the south. When Columbus arrived near Lim¢¢n on September 18, 1502 on his third and last voyage to the Americas, there were probably no more than 20,000 indigenous inhabitants They lived in several autonomous tribes, all with distinct cultures and customs. Costa Rica's only major archaeological site is at Guayabo, 30 miles east of San Jos‚‚, where an ancient city, dating back to 1000 B.C. and though to have contained 10,000 people at its peak, is currently being excavated. Many interesting gold, jade and pottery artefacts have been found throughout the region and are on display in several museums in San Jose.
“Transcript of Flight Attendant Betty Ong.” Global Issues in Contest. N.p., n.d. Web. 5 Feb. 2014. .
I would like to travel Nicaragua to spend time with my Family and go visit the beach and beautiful and wonderful different places, I would like to eat food from my country, is very delicious and different kinds.
I can’t wait until we reach America, when our lives will change for the better. We are in the dining room, enjoying a lovely dinner that consists of bread and mashed potatoes. My brothers and I are talking about what we will do once we reach America. Then, all of a sudden, we hear a loud noise. Bang! A huge vibration ran through the room, and instantly I know something is wrong. Maybe it is instinct, or maybe it is just my imagination after what my family has been through, but I know something is not right. I raced to the top deck with my brothers in tow, and we took the steps two at a time. There, we saw people running frantically and gathering women and children. Mothers were grabbing their children, and shoving them on life rafts. A man grabbed my shoulders, and when I looked at him, he looked to be someone official.
As I opened the doors to Lynn Gross Discovery School P.S. 17Q. I felt the butterflies in my stomach. It was the first day of school in America for me and had a bad feeling. My mom, my dad, my sister, Monica and I step inside the school. I looked inside the enormous hallway and the walls covered with artwork and pictures. My dad commanded my sister, Monica and I “I have to go to the office and do something. You two sit down on the benches and wait with your mom.” Monica and I agreed and said, “Okay.’’ I felt the clock ticking by and I wished for the world to stop turning. I waited and waited and waited. Finally, I decided to ask my mom something. “Mom, do you know how to say I don’t know how to speak English in English?” I asked her in Russian. She told me how and I tried to remember. I repeated the words over and over again like a singer trying to memorize the lyrics to a song, until my dad finally came out the office. My dad told us “You are now officially students of P.S.157. Now it time to go to your classrooms” in Russian.
Food is one of human beings favorite addiction. From the arepas, to arroz con coco (coconut rice) there are many different platters from my cultural background. Being Colombian and eating Colombian almost every day brings me closer to these aspects from my culture. The way I feel connected to my Colombian culture is through its food. Many of the meals that I have eaten in my life come from my Colombian culture. Whether I’m home, at my aunt’s house or a family party something that is being made connects me back to my food roots.
As our plane landed at LaGuardia airport in New York City and we walked out into the terminal through the long dark and narrow jet way, the first glances made all of us aware we were not at home. I was on a school trip along with 29 other classmates and six chaperones, 36 people who were used to the calmness of the peaceful town in St. Michael, MN. The facility was outrageously filthy with trash barrels completely overflowing and the floor looked as if it had not been mopped for weeks. The endless amount of loud people scattered everywhere throughout the airport made it difficult to walk without running into the person in front or beside you.
The heart begins racing the moment the car pulls into the airport parking lot. The smell of jet fuel, automobile exhaust, and hot tarmac combine to assault the senses with images of exotic escapes and the kind of freedom that can only come from airports. I feel the thrum of the engines at takeoff and the vibration of the plane during the flight in my skin. I see people listening to MP3s and playing video games. I hear the couple behind me chatting about the weather in Florida and the possibility of rain. I recognize the smell of fading perfume that women are wearing. Chanel, Windsong and White Diamonds clash with the smell of popcorn and Quizno sandwiches.
My heart was pounding as I boarded my flight leaving the Bangkok International Airport. A flight attendant in a grey dress with a red bow draped over her shoulder announced; “Welcome aboard flight AA350 to the United States.” My journey began that day.
Just after this quick bend, the crew became visible helping people on. Just before I entered the transportation unit, I looked down at the gap left between the door and I. The metal around the entry door was rusted and worn, which gave me an eerie feeling. Reluctantly, I stepped aboard and felt uneasy as I saw those responsible for taking us to our destination. I would soon know for sure, how I felt about my now plausible career.
“Flight 208 to Los Angeles is now boarding. Section N you may now take your seats”. You looked down at your carry-on bag to make sure you have everything packed up, even though you took nothing out, and headed toward the flight attendant and handed her your ticket. As your walking through the tunnel, the sound of the planes jets put just enough pressure on your body, causing your pulse to increase. “Why are you nervous, you been on planes before”, you ask yourself. You shake your head and start to inhale and before you could finish getting your lungs to the maximum capacity they could hold, a man wearing a white shirt twice his size and jeans that also seemed
In the summer of 2004 my dream of visiting New York came to life. I could hardly contain my excitement to finally live the life of a New Yorker, even if it would only be for a couple of days. The plane ride itself was torture, because of my bubbling anticipation to get to my destination. Once the captain announced the descent into the New York airport my stomach became a bundle of knots. The arrival into the city was everything I had hoped it would be. My husband and I, of course, had trouble finding our way around JFK airport. We couldn't figure out the place that we were supposed to go to get our baggage. My husband and I and everyone from our plane ended up going outside of the airport to gain access to another part of the airport. Eventually things got cleared up and we found our terminal where our luggage was supposed to be. Finally after about a half an hour of being in the airport we figured out how to maneuver ourselves through the airport. As if we had passed our first test we...