I am waiting in terminal C at the Atlanta Airport. By contract, all 15 members of our group must leave the USA. There are twenty minutes left before the plane is to take off. I must choose to stay or leave; I won’t ever get this chance again. I spot an exit sign by an escalator. I politely ask to go window shopping in the terminal. I am surprised when the guard allows me, although she says I must take a group member along, and I must leave all my luggage behind. My precious and most comfy shoes are in my suitcase. 

My mind is set. I leave my companion when she isn’t looking. I sprint my way toward the exit sign. The escalator leads down to a narrow hallway that takes a sharp right. When I reach the bottom, I have to pull the brakes on my legs because I spot a guard around the turn. I cautiously pass him, and thankfully he does not bother to question my suspicious behaviour. 

At the next turn in this hallway, a sign shows that the escalator leads to the shuttle that travels between terminals. I make my way onto it, not daring to look back, as I suspect I am being chased. When I take my seat, I feel as if everyone on the train is eyeing me. I think security guards on the shuttle might come and question me. This does not happen, though as the minutes go by while I am on this train, I panic more and more at what I might find at the next stop. Maybe a few officers will handcuff me and be done with it all! 

Fortunately, this is not the case either, and as I get off at terminal D, then A, B, and again C, my fortune seems very bright. So far, no guards seem to be alert to my escape. Still, I am very eager to find the main exit and put as much distance between myself and this airport as possible. 

When I leave terminal D for the second time after failing to find the way out, I overhear a conversation between two passengers. They say their family is waiting for them at a luggage carousel in terminal A. In the interval of 20 minutes that I spent searching for my destination among the terminals, I finally find it: apparently, it is exactly where I started. I must’ve been in such a hurry that I missed it. So I sit on this train, going all the way around in a circle until I arrive back at Terminal A. I take the same hallway and escalator back up. This time I notice the huge doors leading out. I speed out like an escaping prisoner and take my leave on a random bus. 

Freed from the grasp of the group and the security, I did not think about where fate would lead me next in this strange world. Giving away my identity, fearing being rejected, and living an uncertain and paranoid life: none of this mattered: I was mourning over my shoes I left behind. 

It has been three years since I made my way to Canada. I have tried various types of shoes, from low heels to high heels, various colours, shapes and designs. Though some might be more beautiful, I have yet to find any as fair and comfortable as my dear beloved airport shoes.