Coming Home
This blog didn't turn out the way I planned, obviously. I hoped to write more, quite a lot more actually. I failed horrifically in that regard. I'm not proud of it, although I'm not particularly bothered by it either. I've come to the same conclusion many times, learned my lesson hundreds of times over - I write for myself. When I try to make it about or for someone else, I can't. The words don't flow. The inspiration won't stick. For some reason while I was traveling, writing down and sharing my adventure with others felt like a chore. It felt like I owed a piece of my adventures to the world I left behind. It felt like I was trying to justify something, to someone. Of course, this is ridiculous and all in my head. That "someone" doesn't exist. Maybe I was just being selfish. Sharing pictures is easy, sharing words is much harder. Whatever the case, here we are.
Sure, I'm a bit bummed that I didn't write everything down. I'll never remember the names of all the delicious restaurants I ate in, wines I've tasted, or stores I've shopped in. I'll never remember all of the names and faces of the roommates I've had. The memories are already blurry, bleeding off the edges of the canvas, destined to be lost forever. I suppose one day that will make me sad, looking at the larger picture, knowing that it's missing details. However, there's nothing I can do about that now. It's just the way that everything unfolded for me.
Over the few months that I've been home, many people have asked my about my travels. Of course they have, I've been asking myself about them too. Everyone wants to know the same things. "What was your favorite place?" "If you could live in one place you visited, where would it be?" "What country has the best food?" "Did you meet any guys?" "Weren't you scared, being on your own?" "Did anyone steal something from you?"
These aren't bad questions and I can certainly fill in the blanks. But they are a personal struggle, because I feel like they don't hit the target of what this entire experience was for me. They're the spark note questions - get the answers to these and you pass the final exam. Obviously that's not everyone's intention when they ask me questions, I know that. It's not anyone else's fault. I've only given everyone the book jacket summary, and I've kept the novel to myself. I don't know why I'm doing that. Maybe because I feel like the pages are out of order while some are missing entirely. Maybe I'm scared for the book to be over.
Coming home was both easy and hard. Easy, because I had been on the road for 10 months. I know there are many people who thrive as nomads, but I like to have a home. I was exhausted by being a stranger in every situation. I was getting burnt out, and I didn't want to continue on if it was just to check off countries some imaginary list. It was hard for more obvious reasons. I'd been coming back to people and places that I'd left for a reason. I'd be ending this grand adventure and then what? Back to the 9 to 5? Back to a small town, with small minds. I don't mean to be offensive here, but, it's just true. Not everyone of course, but many, and more because of ignorance than purpose. "Coming back to where you started is not the same as never leaving," Terry Pratchett says, and if that ain't the truth. I'm home, but it will never be the same home that I remember. I think that's okay. I'm learning to love it in new ways, from new angles. It's a work in progress.
I can't tell you the name of the 4 euro bottle of wine I drank on a hilltop in Portugal, watching the sunset. I can't remember the rules to the drinking game I played for hours in the common room of my hostel in Budapest. I can't remember the names of many of the famous works that I saw. I can't remember the names of my roommates in Poland, even though shared more than one shot of vodka together. The names of the dives sites I dove in the Similan Islands are lost to me. I can't remember exactly where I was when I skinny-dipped underneath a waterfall in Australia after a sweaty, wonderful hike. I can't remember a lot of things, as I've simply forgotten the details.
I can, however, tell you this: quitting my job and going after my biggest dream was the best decision I have ever made. I would not change a single thing - not a single second, a single laugh, tear, or smile. I can't remember all the details, no, but my heart was filled - stretched - with wonder, joy, excitement, beauty, and hope. I met people that I'll never forget and some who I will - but they all taught me something. I saw sorrow and struggle, triumph and resilience. Every step I took changed the way that I relate to the world. Every step and stumble was worth it.
Maybe my grand adventure will always only be written in the folds of my mind and never freed by pen or keyboard. And maybe this novel is truly complete.
But, maybe it's time to write another one. Page by page, I'll figure out what it's about.
"Surely, of all the wonders of the world, the horizon is the greatest." Freya Stark