Girl Beyond Borders: 2014

I WASN'T INTENDING TO BE IN ICELAND for longer than six nights, in fact this stop was more of a "why the hell not?" than a "must go now!" on the lists of lists each traveler has floating around in their minds.

After realizing a stop-over was possible via Icelandair, a few clicks and hefty credit card payment later, I was booked. Toronto > Keflavik - 6 nights, Keflavik > Glasgow - Infinitely. That is where I f’ed up. The infinite, oh how us long-term travelers like to think we can stay in places forever. Or at the very least until we get bored. It wasn't my intention to stay forever but it was my intention to be flexible. I did not know how long I'd need in Scotland or where I'd want to fly home from afterwards. Europe has many options you see. I'm bad at personal deadlines and even worse at decision making. Throw in a bunch of countries you absolutely should go see and then I just procrastinate. Yes, I was aware UK border control is tight, sure I had looked up the entry requirements beforehand and noted that customs, "May ask you to provide a return or onward ticket and proof of sufficient funds during your stay." Am I an idiot for thinking this is was passive warning and wouldn't be asked of me? Yes. Karl Pilkington and I are now best friends. Perhaps that two year work visa I once had clouded my perception of how things really work crossing the UK border. Of course that's one way to justify the fact that I had shot myself in the foot.

Then, there is honesty. Good ol’ honesty. In Kindergarten they teach you the consequences of telling a lie and yet they skip over the fact honesty has an appropriate time and place. You'd think I would have learned my lesson from that time at the U.S border between Buffalo and Niagara. I let it slip that I was visiting a friend from Canada who had moved to New Orleans. It was 3am and the border guard proceeded to grill me about my friend's current visa situation (well, she had none). That was the night honesty at the border should have died. I could blame it on the Icelandic hangover or the fact that I did not sleep at all in the last 24 hours leading up to my travels. One judgmental stare from the female border guard and I had managed to say all the wrong answers in ten seconds flat. Advice from Karl Pilkington and I - never mention you’re working on a personal writing project or that you are planning to volunteer in a hostel. Especially avoid all of the above if you don’t have a work visa. This was followed by the burning question on whether I had an exit ticket. Right, so about that…

Suddenly, I was ordered to sit my ass down (in a more polite Scottish manner) and handed a slip of paper explaining that I was being detained.

Tired as hell and detained. Forced to unload the entire contents of my backpack and make awkward jokes with the border guard about the random belongings. How does one explain what a dry bag is used for without appearing more criminal? Then, grilled about my friends, finances and status of employment in Canada (Note: in the UK freelancer equals unsteady and will steal our jobs). It was a long wait in a brightly lit, dull white room where the only form of sanity was a poster of a forested landscape somewhere in Scotland and a window looking out into the hallway. The border guards would walk by and occasionally glance at the girl who wanted in. Before table flipping could commence, the female border guard delivered the verdict, I was denied entrance into the UK and given the black mark. A stamp on my passport from Immigrations in Glasgow with two lines crossed straight through it. This mark will come back to haunt me every time I try to enter the UK, the incident showing up in their digital records as well.

Here’s the cherry on top: they were sending me back to Iceland. At least it's Iceland, I thought. Denying the realization that I had f’ed up massively. In an attempt to provide some closure the border guard revealed that I was the second girl denied entrance that day for similar reasons. You can't volunteer in the UK without a work visa.

After collecting my finger prints, filling out the paperwork and treating their detainee like a proper house guest, "Can I get you a cup of tea, coffee, water?" "Are you hungry? We have crisps or biscuits. Or something from the cafeteria? Sweet Chilli Chicken, Pasta Bolognese, Lasagna…" Brilliant hospitality in the back office of border control, I must say. Being lovely doesn't ease over the rejection Scotland, no help at all.

Since the next available flight was scheduled at 2pm the following day, I was released to wreak havoc for one night in Glasgow. Passport-less and heartbroken I did what any Scot would do. I summoned my mates to the pub and drowned the night away with drams of whisky and pints of Caledonia 80. After an offer to get hitched to a tall, blonde Glaswegian lass followed by ridiculous dancing at a Brazilian pub, I awoke the next morning to realize the nightmare wasn't merely a bad dream. During my taxi ride to the airport, I found myself wiping away a steady flow of tears. Even as my driver revealed he was an alcoholic and complained about his daughter marrying into a homeless family. "Good on you mate! At least you aren't being kicked out of the bloody country," I thought.

No time to focus. Down your pints and get out!

I was met by a border guard at the airport. My own personal escort to navigate through customs, just in case I attempted to make a run for it. As we shifted through security he revealed he was an avid collector of old stamps dating back to the 1800's. Nothing about these encounters eased the heartbreak. But when I sat down in my aisle seat, my gaze fell upon the round burly face and genuine smile of the Icelandic steward who kindly handed me a blanket. Reminding me, at least it's Iceland. I was trading one brilliant place for the next.

If things had gone according to plan I'd be on the Isle of Skye in Scotland, cleaning toilets in exchange for a free stay and the chance to focus on rewrites of my novel. As much as I was looking forward to this (rewrites not toilets), I've been there, done that few times before. "There's just no life glued to old takes, deleted scenes of your favourite show," – sang by Admiral Fallow (a great Scottish band, do check them out).

I could keep revisiting the places in the world I enjoy the most, but what if I'm missing out on discovering a place I like more. When I landed in Keflavik there was no doubt I would survive the rejection, the massive mistake on my part. Like any notable heartbreaks the recovery would take time.

I was restless for a few days, uncertain, full of doubt and had no idea whether to fight for the right to re-enter the UK, let alone if I wanted to anymore. Option B: simply enjoy the place I was sent back to. There was always a reason to keep moving, to avoid dwelling on the mistake. One night my host, who has since labelled me the Senior Couchsurfer, invited a bunch of travellers he'd never met before to his apartment for a home cooked fish dinner. Sitting around the table, listening to the variation of accents from Switzerland, Italy, Morocco, San Francisco and Canada, each of us had arrived in Iceland separately on our own adventures, yet in a snapshot we could have been mistaken for good friends. Meeting warmhearted people in Iceland and exploring the beauty of the land is the cure for any heartbreak. It’s hard to feel out place or unwelcome. The changes in the landscape are so sporadic that it easily becomes a distraction. When in doubt take a deep breath of the clean, fresh air or stand next to the sea to feel the wind whip 22 miles per hour across the bay upon the cheeks of your frozen smile.