With Mozart in the clouds
Sunday 12 February 2012 We were back on the plane, my girlfriend and travel companion and I, on our way to the States. We were ready. At Schiphol we had even filled out the customs form already, for a job done is a job done, after all. And I had called Irma, because I had not got around to that yet with all the travel preparations. We were back on the plane, my girlfriend and travel companion and I, on our way to the States. We were ready. At Schiphol we had even filled out the customs form already, for a job done is a job done, after all. And I had called Irma, because I had not got around to that yet with all the travel preparations. So among the people waiting in the waiting area at the gate, most of whom were working on their laptops, I spoke with Irma about the journey ahead. Irma told me to say hello to M., should I happen to see him during my visits to W. in prison. Irma writes with M., that’s why. "Does M. know I’m coming to visit?" I asked. M. knows, said Irma, and also what I look like because she had sent a picture of us. "He will be so excited and happy and will give you a big hug when he sees you," she said. Then I wanted to know what M. looked like. I had to be sure that it was M. hugging me, because I won’t let just any many hug me, I said. Across from me, a bewildered gentleman, who was listening in, almost dropped his laptop on the floor.After the call we went through security and the officers were friendly this time, not as suspicious as last year. In the plane, we were greeted by flight attendants with frozen smiles, but also by classical music and that made it okay. The usual procedure followed: Settling in, drinking, eating, dozing, watching the clouds. And think about the next ten days. How would the visits in prison go? And would we meet interesting people, have any fun experiences? At that time, I did not know yet that during the first breakfast in the motel we would meet Tim, a Canadian teacher in transit, who would tell us the story of his life. A wealthy widower, who had been searching for new love and thought he had found it. That turned out to be a big mistake, and now he no longer trusts any woman at all. I also did not yet know the Mexican woman and her two sons who worked at the motel. She kept our room clean, among other things, and the boys aged sixteen and thirteen helped her, going around with towels and soap. She was a sweet woman, petite, with many worries. The motel was fine. One of the receptionists was very talkative, even when it was inconvenient. When I was checking my emails, for example. Only when she realized that I had visited prisoners changed her attitude.
One day, we went with our friend Rick out to lunch at Steer’s. Next to ours was a table with guys from the fire department – fire fighters have to eat too. And in the corner was a table with a couple that prayed elaborately before starting their lunch. But before they finished their meal the man got a heart attack, and it was fortunate that the fire fighters were around, as they could immediately provide first aid. And they didn’t even forget to tip the waitress before they all left. And then there was that little old woman in her pajamas, shuffling behind her walker, on her way to Wal-Mart. Why was she not dressed? Could she not do it herself, was there nobody to help her? Is there no such thing as homecare in the U.S., or is that unaffordable? And then that disheveled veteran along the side of the road with a cardboard sign reading "HELP".
The visits to the prison: the long wait in line outside. Then, after the hassle of registering, going through security inspection, walking through the cage and finally entering the visitation room. And there, standing in line at the counter for meals and 'snacks and sodas.' Talking, eating popcorn, strolling through the hall, meeting again with several acquaintances. The meetings with prisoners and their visitors, whom I did not know yet, but I would like to get to know better. M., the man who writes with Irma, was not in the visitation room, as he got no visitors during those days. So I did not get a hug from him. Well, you can not have everything.
And again outside the prison: The politeness of most Americans, the relaxed traffic on the roads, the spaciousness. But also the danger. "If you go hiking, do so only on the sidewalk along the highway and leave your handbag at home," I was warned. And don’t go outside after eleven at night because drugs are dealt in the neighborhood. Don’t do this and don’t do that. Even my scarf would be better to wear differently rather than the modern way. For now, a gunman only needed to pull the scarf to threaten me with strangulation in order to get hold of my bag.
But those warnings I had not yet got on the plane, and I knew nothing of what would happen. I sat in my chair and watched the white clouds that looked like soft down duvets. I connected the earphone to the monitor in front of me. I did not want to watch a movie this time, I wanted music. A clarinet concerto by Mozart. And so I traveled to America. No, I did not know yet how the trip would go, that we would almost miss our connecting flight, and what would happen later. Tim, the talkative receptionist, the Mexican woman and her sons, all the conversations that had not yet taken place, the people I had not yet met and seen. I still had to experience any such event. But now I was on the plane and a clarinet concert moved me. And so I flew to America, with Mozart in the clouds.