I said, "I like it here. Can I stay?"

I'm writing this from the airport in Cardiff. I'm in a small room with nothing in it but a table and a few chairs. It's made of white walls, tile floors, fluorescent lights. There is no doorknob on my side of the door.

Occasionally people come in and ask me questions or ask me to sign things. They're actually being quite nice. They keep asking if I want anything to drink. Although I'd been told before that this was a restricted area and I couldn't have any of my things, they've just allowed me use of my laptop, which is unexpected and kind. Did you know that Oscar Wilde wasn't allowed to have anything with which to write while he was in prison? That bit of trivia has driven me to rages, to sobbing. When I was told I wasn't allowed anything to write with I tried to smile and said, "I understand. Thank you anyway." But I've not exactly been choking on De Profundis for years, have I?

Although I've mostly not done it while one of them was in the room, I'm embarrassed by the fact that there is a window through which they're watching me when I cry.

I'm waiting until five thirty, at which time I'll be put on a flight back to Amsterdam. I suppose I'm lucky that I'm not being sent to the States.

You'd be correct to notice that I'm having a hard time admitting what has actually happened, which is that I'm an idiot and trusted erroneous information about the kind of visa I'd need in order to volunteer on an organic farm in Cornwall for a few months. Although I'm not permanently being barred entry from the UK (my asking if that would be the case was the cause of my weeping on my interrogator) they've suggested that if I want to be successful at getting past their gate, I not try again for around six months or so, and that I not attempt to stay for long. Technically nothing stops me from trying sooner or for longer. It's just quite likely that I'll be sent back to wherever I came from on the next available flight.

Working on the farm, where I'd hoped to learn to raise bees, is one of two things I don't think I'd really mentioned here. The other is that one of my dearest friends lives somewhat near there. I didn't mention either because they both meant a great deal to me, and I prefer to maintain that I'm nothing but a frivolous if occasionally accidentally clever young fop.

The farm raised chickens and cattle, exotic vegetables, and bees. Bees, I tell you. They had a small orchard, an herb garden, and made their own chutneys and bread. I've never lived outside of a city before, and I wanted to know whether or not I'd like, or even be able to handle, the alternative. I wanted to learn to grow things. I wanted to be a beekeeper! I would have been living in a mobile home. I hoped to try to write a book there. Please understand what I mean when I say that I would have been willing to live in a trailer in order to play in the dirt and live in Great Britain for a few months. I like this place. I wanted a chance to get to know it better.

And. Well. There's a gentleman here of whom I'm rather fond. By which I mean to say he's probably brilliant, commands a vocabulary that's nothing short of devastating, and is a completely infuriating bastard. I've never been allowed to spend half as much time on the same side of the planet as him as I'd like, and I was really kind of looking forward to having the chance to bother him with some frequency.

I'd planned to spend a few days with him while my back recovered before moving on to the farm. Ah. Right. That's the other thing. My back went out a few days ago. It's really not been an easy week. At any rate, in the course of attempting to make my case to agents of The Crown, I may have had to resort to using the word "boyfriend". It's a terrible word to have to use, even at the best of times. (The best of times do not ever include hiding from government officials under the forgiving glow of heteronormativity. The best of times also do not include realising, at that moment, that you wouldn't mind if the title were applicable.) To make matters worse, there are now official documents being held that will resurface every time I attempt to return to the UK for the rest of my life. These documents include my fingerprints, a photograph in which I'm certain I look pathetic, various forms, and transcripts of the several interviews to which I was subjected. These transcripts contain the quote, "We met on the internet." I'd like to state for the record, however, that I only answered under duress after attempting to offer the answers to other questions similar to but not actually the one that she asked. Bah.

May I make a formal complaint regarding the fact that I'd always assumed that being detained and interrogated for several hours by members of Britain's airline security team would be more... sexy?


Addendum: Obviously I'm posting this a few hours later. I'm currently safe in Amsterdam. I have a place to stay for tonight, and possibly somewhere else to stay for a few days beyond that. My back is in acceptable if not good condition. I don't know what I'm doing next. So, safe, yes, but I might be completely devastated and too sad to be coherent after posting this. I'm sorry for worrying you, but please send internet hugs?

What would Cassanova do?

Oh, my darling cygnets,

Yesterday, I decided, was for allowing myself my sadness, for flailing publicly at the likes of you lovely people, in the hopes that today I would be able to behave like a reasonable grown up. Your kind words were really more helpful than I can possibly say. Thank you. But now, I'm afraid that I've been thinking. I hope you'll forgive me if I continue being relatively honest about all of this. My tendency in such situations is to keep as silent as possible about my wounds, but being unexpectedly dumped by all of Great Britain seems like a good time to explore more vocal, dare I hope healthier options.

Part the first: At least I get to amend my personal mythology to include the fact that I was forcibly kicked out of Wales.

Part the second: I had my travel plans, but ultimately, I left home with a goal: Make me more of what I'm meant to be. I could have done this nearly anywhere, sure, but the things that made this particular continent seem appealing were as follows:

These places are sufficiently different than what I'm used to, and pushing the edges of my usual reality in a million minuscule ways seemed like a good start for this sort of project.

I like it here.

It's very pretty.

That's it, really.

And, as I was treating this thing as a sort of quest, I'd been aware that things might not go according to plan, and that many of the things I was most looking forward to might be the very things to hurt me, badly. I admit, however, that I thought that I'd get there first.

I have a tendency to suffer more easily when I can at least impose some sort of logic to it, some moral to my story: this is fine, because, clearly, I'm meant to be learning something from it. My world is one that sometimes hurts me, but for a purpose. I'm desperate to make this true, to decipher what flaw in me my pain is meant to be destroying. I turn the consequences of external forces into something that I allow myself to endure; thus I claim a part in it and turn it to something I help to perpetrate. I bend before my enemies, believing by this logic that they must be agents for positive change, somehow influencing things in ways other than their stated goals.

This is cowardly and stupid, and I'm done with it. This is not how this game is going to be played. If I'm meant to be learning something, I'd prefer to be taught several times over the consequences of being a stubborn bastard than whatever I could possibly figure out from rolling over and taking it.

Part the third: I had to ask her several times in the course of my interviews, and I got answers only in fragments, but my inquisitor did tell me this: in all subsequent attempts to re-enter the UK, it may be helpful to have several things in hand. These include the following: a note from my employers explaining that I do have a job waiting for me in the States, and, better yet, a date when they might expect me back; a bank statement with which I might prove that I can afford to travel for as long as I'll be in the country; and a travel visa. Those do cost money, and usually Americans do not require one to enter EU countries, but, well, now I do. Although I don't always travel with one, I expect being able to present a return ticket might also be helpful. My dear friend Bernie, who is immensely helpful especially in those moments when I'm too stunned to make a simple query of the internet, has provided me with the contact information for The British Consulate General in Amsterdam. It has been recommended that I wait three days from the date of the incident, and then attempt to find someone sympathetic who might assist me. That's round one. I'll figure out round two should I find that this one doesn't work.

Part the fourth: For now, besides fighting my way into Britain much like a defiant spermatozoan, I intend to stay in Amsterdam, write, and attempt to decide where I might go in the interim. Perhaps I'll move to France somewhere in an effort to learn a language other than the one I fell out of the womb speaking.

Part the fifth: Some of you dears have asked if there was anything that you could do. As it happens, there is. That I correspond almost exclusively with dangerously attractive, intelligent, and skilled witches, magicians, shamans, and various other brands of those who flirt with the ineffable usually seems simply a credit to my social circle. From time to time I'd be a fool not to consider it to be bloody useful.

Of course I'm willing to exchange favours. Big ones.

Usually, of course, I prefer to do these things myself. But it's not often that I go up against things like government proclamations that have my birth name on them. And I decided some time ago that when dealing with magic, the correct way of doing things was always the option that seemed like the most fun. It didn't have to be easy. It might hurt. It might break me open and leave me twitching and raw. But it had to be good, dirty fun. And getting the likes of you beautiful creatures wiggling your witchy fingers in my general direction sounds like a party to me. May I ask this of you?

Beth has suggested that I make the comments of this post a sort of forum for discussing what you might do. I like this idea if for no other reason than that I like talking shop.

And to you curious little monkeys who have been biting your pretty tongues for months, poignantly not asking me how to get started with this nonsense, I see you. Might I selfishly suggest that this could be an excellent opportunity for an awkward first attempt? Go to, my ducks. I trust you. (Message me privately, if you like.)

I adore you all completely. Now, if you'd be so kind, please get me into Britain, kittens.