| salt (masculine noun) | /sɛl/

I must be one of the only people who regularly flies from rural Tri-Cities, Tennessee to Paris, France. This airport is minuscule. There are four gates, all located in one large waiting area. It takes approximately 10 minutes (tops!) to make it through security, which makes international travel that much easier. But, frankly, I really hate this airport. I’ve cried here way too many times. I remember first waving goodbye as I left to study in Angers, France. I was frightened and glossy-eyed as I tried to feign courage, hugging my mom as she pushed me toward security and said, “Go. Go start your next great adventure.” Lips trembling, I looked back as the TSA officer ushered me through, and I descended the steps to my plane.

I also remember flying to-and-from Hartford while I studied in Connecticut. The distance wasn’t quite as drastic, but I still sobbed after hugging my dad goodbye. Like Lot’s wife, I tell myself, Don’t look back. Don’t look back. And upon turning around, I transform into a small heap of salt.

About Gabriella

I'm a twenty-something insomniac with a caffeine addiction and chronic wanderlust. I recently graduated with my M.A. in French, and I've spent the past two years living and working as an English teacher in France. I now work as an English professor at a university in Lille, where my students are learning to never omit the Oxford comma.
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