Tuesday, July 24, 2012
life goes on.
It's a funny thing, travelling. I'll tell you a secret. France was amazing. England was amazing. (No that's not the secret obviously--be patient, geez.) Here it is. During those whole four-weeks-minus-one-day of being gone in Europe, I couldn't wait to come home. Not in a "get me out of here, this isn't all it's cooked up to be" sort of way. More like a "I just can't wait to tell people all about this" sort of way.
I felt kind of pathetic for it, really, and I knew coming home would be a lot more anticlimactic than I'd perhaps wish. It was.
I mean, don't get me wrong. It's good to be home. (I feel funny writing this since I returned from Europe three weeks ago--but especially with the Justice Ride, I really didn't feel like I was home till last week). I think maybe the Justice Ride is part of what made coming home so anticlimactic--because as incredible as it was, everyone is just so focused on the work we do that week. As it should be, but meanwhile, I sat busting at the seams with stories that I felt like no one was much interested in hearing. Being in Europe for a month isn't something you just get over with a "hey, it was cool." But on the other hand, it was so huge that I don't even know where to start unless I'm actually asked about it.
(Sidetrack: I love when people initiate and ask me questions. About anything. I don't think there is anything that makes me feel so loved in all the world.)
Another reason it was anticlimactic is because Cassie isn't here. Obviously I knew that would be the case, what with her up and moving to Canada on me and all, but that doesn't make it any more favorable. Don't worry--I'm surviving. It's great to have my own room for the first time in my life, and we make sure we talk pretty often. It's just...she's the one I'd tell every story to. The one that if in normal conversation I came up with a story that started with "oh, in France..." wouldn't roll her eyes and say "psh, here she goes again." (Well maybe she would--but then I could slap her so we could move on with life and my story of course.) She's been those places, she gets it, it's her thing too. I've actually talked to her about all this and she says she felt the same way upon returning from France five years ago, and anticipates feeling the same way upon returning from Canada.
I mean, it's not purposeful. People just don't think about it. Half the (few) people that have actually asked me about every little detail and then listened have traveled themselves. I don't know. Sometimes people don't get it.
Meanwhile, I've told the same three funny stories over and over (which is fine...they're good ones), but I often don't get much farther than that. Even though--geez, I lived in France for a month. I journaled every single day while on that trip. Wrote about everything. Not just what I did or saw, but about what I felt, what I was thinking, about life and my mock philosophical ramblings. It felt so good, because really every single piece of me from that month is in that book. Half of me just wants someone to read it so they understand. (And then I realize: uh, no.)
I really don't have an epic conclusion/solution for this. Life keeps going. And life is really good right now too--crazy with looming deadlines and day-to-day issues, but also good, because it's summer. It's summer, and life goes on. Don't mind me. I'm just thinking out loud.