I’m looking out the bus window, admiring emerald palms and pastel apartment buildings. Then, I notice an extended hand with my peripheral vision and turn to my right.
“Tatiana,” says the woman sitting next to me, in a kind voice.
I shake her hand. “Alina.”
“I thought the tour guide spoke French, but he only knows Russian!”
I chuckle. “I thought he knew English!” And then, “Wait, you know French?”
“Yes, I used to be a French teacher at school but now teach online.”
“That’s so cool! I have a French diploma from Canada!”
Intrigued, I keep listening to what Tatiana says and raise my brows in disbelief when she mentions that she is in her late 60s.
“I travel all around the world. My friends say that I am too old, but I do it anyways. One of my friends said that I shouldn’t ride an air balloon because it might fall. Like, the fucking sky might fall on you any minute! That’s why I choose to do everything I haven’t yet done in my life.”
I nod because the fucking sky might indeed fall on you any minute. Mesmerized, I listen to Tatiana tell me how she sent her two daughters to the United States, even though everyone told her that it was crazy. How she studies psychology, knows four languages and has visited more countries than I can recall. I tell her how in my six years in Canada, I’ve had five jobs and moved four places with friends and how I missed going out when the pandemic started, but then filled my days with learning to play the guitar, skateboarding, drawing, and studying criminology. I smile telling her how in a year from now I’ll be applying for a Canadian passport.
Minutes turn into hours, and we reach Cappadocia. I look at Tatiana with admiration. Because she is a woman. Because she is Russian. Because she is powerful and strong.
Midnight before my trip to Turkey, Antalya, I dug my head out of a giant burgundy suitcase with a huge smile on my face. I look at my roommate and our friend Liz who came here to help me get ready for the flight.
“You don’t fit!” exclaims my roommate.
I look into the iPhone camera she holds in front of me, “Yes, I do!”
She shakes her head, “Your butt doesn’t fit!”
I pout, but then join in the laughter that the three of us cannot hold inside.
We roll my clothes in tight knots after watching a YouTube tutorial, only stopping to drink red wine from crystal glasses on my bedside drawer. I hum along to Travis’s Scott “Goosebumps” that echoes from the walls when my friend’s voice brings me back to the present, “Please don’t marry a Turkish guy and leave forever!”
I tilt my head to the side. “I can’t promise anything!”
My roommate’s sky-blue eyes meet mine.
“You can’t! Who the fuck’s gonna pay the rent?”
I roll my eyes, but then see her extended arms and hug her tightly. I look around the room that has been my home for a whole year now and wave my arm at Liz in a ‘come here’ motion. I’ll miss them, even though I’ll be talking to them every day—in a short period of time, they have become family.
Nights turn into mornings, and ten days after I arrive to Turkey, I feel anticipation crawl through my veins as I wait for a white tour bus to appear near our apartment. I exhale a breath of relief when it arrives on time. Greeting the driver in English, the palms of my hands heat up when he replies in Russian. I enter the vehicle and am immersed in the ocean of eyes of blue and green colours. I hear familiar syllables echo from the walls of the bus. The tour that I booked in English must be in Russian after all. Just great.
I find my way to the back of the bus and rest my head on a beige backpack that I situate on the seat next to the window. I put my legs on the next seat, crawl into a fetal position, and dig my Air Pods out from the pocket of my denim shorts. I turn Keane’s “Somewhere Only We Know” on, feeling the words “I’m getting old, and I need something to rely on” resonate somewhere deep within me. I try to fall asleep to the calming melody, but the pounding in my head does not let me drift off. I should not have stayed up until 4am and had so many rums and cola last night.
I think about my uncle Denis who was drinking with me and decide that I do not regret spending time with him one bit. We talk after his wife Maria, and baby Mia, went to sleep. I have always loved how midnight conversations open something within your soul and make you truly vulnerable. We talk about Canada and Turkey, and I become fascinated listening to him tell me how he had been travelling around the world for the past 10 years. Further, Maria just had Mia, and they have kept moving. “I could never do that”, I said to him. “I like travelling, but I also want stability.” He nodded at me, and I continued. “That’s why I worked my ass off to get Canadian residency.”
I hear the tour guide say his ‘Hello’s’ and introduce himself as Altan. Too tired to concentrate, I don’t listen while he announces the upcoming stops. I see a forest of hands before me dig into their purses and backpacks and realize that I need to prepare an ID. My fingertips turn into little icebergs when Altan approaches me. I extend my hand with the passport towards him. I look into his auburn eyes pleadingly and see him walk away with an understanding nod. Thank God. I know that he saw my birthdate on the page I showed him—September 11. Today’s date. And I feel every muscle in my body relax because he didn’t acknowledge it.
Traveling on my birthday was a tradition I’ve had since I was 5 years old. My parents asked me what I wanted, and I always said memories. Since then, I’ve visited 20 countries across the globe. The ritual stopped after I turned 17 and moved to Canada, making me disappointed. My parents helped me out financially up until I was 19, and after that I couldn’t save up enough for a trip until now—my 24th birthday.
I think about how after I return from Cappadocia, I will go back to the apartment where I met my mom and brother 10 days ago, but they won’t be there. We try to align our travel days to spend the whole vacation together, but only a week of my three weeks in Turkey did I have a chance to see them. I still feel my thoughts detangle like forgotten Christmas lights when I think about my mom. Saying goodbye to her at the airport, I tried not to drown in her eyes, thinking she doesn’t know me at all. It’s not like we were hostile towards each other; we just didn’t agree on a single thing—ever. She doesn’t know that I left Russia because I don’t want to become like her: my mom, who had me at 19 and was a housewife for five long years after I was born. I was escaping because it wasn’t something unusual for Russia, and the prospect of following the same path as my mom made me want to crawl out of my own skin.
I want to see my dad during the trip, but he couldn’t come because of his work. It’s difficult to swallow because we are close. He moved to the city from a small suburban area at 16 and started a car oil business by himself, all while being a professional boxer. I wanted to be like him when I grow up. So, I used to watch boxing with him in front of the flat TV in our living room. I also used to come home with bruises—bluish and golden stars and clouds on my neck, stomach, legs, and arms. To my mom’s frustration, I initiated physical fights with my best friend, trying to prove to him that I was stronger, fiercer.
I feel euphoric as I think of the photos in my childhood albums. I always adored the ones of me in bright red boxing gloves with my dad and his friends by my side, a mountain of strong arms hugging my tiny shoulders. I also love the photo of me standing next to my dad in the kitchen, red-faced and with pursed lips, trying my best to hold back the tears after my nose had collided with a wooden dining table. By the age of 5, I’d seen my dad come home with shattered bones so many times that I wanted to act tough just like him. As I got older, it was because of my dad’s qualities that I knew that I had it within me to move across the ocean and forget about sleep and rest as I navigated my life on a new continent.
Every time I face an obstacle, I saw it as a challenge; my dad was able to build a new life on a new land, and I decided that I could too. I knew that I wanted to immigrate, and I decided to do it at any cost.
The wind from the air conditioner distracts me from the train of rushing thoughts. Zipping up my blue hoodie with a white maple leaf sign on the top right, I feel my face light up at the thought that somewhere across the globe my little brother must be wearing the same hoodie. I even got us the same size. I think of the time I saw him right before he left the country and shiver. Because I didn’t talk to him on our long way to the airport; I couldn’t. I had to turn to the window so that he didn’t see the flood of tears streaming from my eyes because I was leaving him behind, again.
I hear a loud “Can I sit here?” and sit up so fast that I see a cloud of sparkles in the air before me.
“Sure!”
I look at the woman next to me as she situates herself in the spot where I’d been resting the soles of my white Pumas just a minute ago.
By her kind amber eyes and grey hair that frame her square face nicely. She must be in her 50s. I decide not to talk to her not only because it takes me a while to warm up to people, but also because she is Russian.
After I came to Canada, I avoided Russian-speaking people for three long years. Then, I somehow made Russian friends and talking to them felt like using a phantom limb. And I was surprised when the walls didn’t crumble on me once we became close. Even so, I’m still learning to accept that not every Russian person embodies everything I don’t like about Russia.
I’m afraid that Tatiana might inhabit the qualities that I don’t like in Russian people: she might be homophobic, sexist, racist, or all the above. I am dreading her telling me that I shouldn’t have left Russia and trying to prove to me that Russian politics and education and healthcare are great. In the past, I had to listen to Russian people tell me this so many times that I learned to shove my words behind my teeth. Because disagreeing is pointless, useless.
I’m afraid that Tatiana might inhabit those qualities, not yet aware that our conversation will be life changing in many ways.
_____________________________________________________________________________
We arrive at Cappadocia, and minutes after, I am standing in a huge, braided basket of the color of cereal grain. My cheeks turn rosy from the heat that brightens up a lively balloon. The balloon is sky-blue but has red stripes on it, and it’s so gigantic that I must lift my chin up to see where it ends. I look to my left, and as I slowly turn my head all the way to the right, I feel like a child that has won the biggest teddy bear at the carnival game. Dozens of lightbulbs are flowing in the sky; they are of yellow, orange, purple, and many-hued colours – the most striking colours I’ve ever seen. I look at Tatiana who is standing to my right and as more balloons slowly go up in the air, I feel peaceful. Because in the world that is so beautiful, one can be whoever they want to be.
I decide that somewhere beyond the horizon there is a version of me who understands what it means to be Canadian and Russian. Or even what it means to be a woman. But for now, I know that I’m someone who immigrated to their favourite country in the world and will soon pursue their dream of becoming a writer. I decide that it’s a valid reason enough to stop escaping.
Luna Floyd is a Creative Writing and English student from the University of Toronto, Scarborough. She is passionate about reading, writing and film. Currently, she is volunteering as an editor for the University of Toronto’s SELF (students of English literature and film) and as a blog writer for DRIFF (Durham Region International Film Festival). Her dream is to travel the world and become a professional writer because she wants to share her poems and stories with the world. She likes writing about social issues she finds important and hopes that people pay more attention to them. The story "Beyond the Horizon" is a non-fiction story about her experience as a first-generation immigrant who left home to pursue her dreams of living in Canada and becoming a writer. The story shows how travelling can help us meet great people who can teach us valuable lessons and even help us understand ourselves better.
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