26 October 2015

It’s unbelievable that twenty days have passed since I last wrote in my digital journal. Mostly because it feels as though months upon months have passed. And yet, it is only twenty days, days that have been jam packed full of adventures – landmarks seen, hikes hiked, pubs frequented, city streets wandered – mind you, but still. It has been less than a month and I’m unsure of what to say. How can I sum it all up? How can I condense what these twenty days have been for me?

I could tell you where I’ve been:

Berlin, Krakow, Budapest, Milan, Geneva, London, Dublin, Taynuilt –

But what would that really tell you?

I could say what I’ve done:

Gawked in museums with rain pattering lightly on wide windows, walked through the camp of Birkenau-Auschwitz with a heavy sodden sadness in my chest, soaked in ancient baths with speedo-suited locals, explored the World’s Fair Expo with wide eyed wonderment, lay in the grass in the sun with a tired sort of contentedness, felt my heart expand as I looked upon buildings old and new crashing in a brilliant urban manner, sang along to the same Irish songs every night with a pint in hand, hiked through lush green landscapes on a hill overlooking a loch –

But that still cannot capture the true heart of it all.

I suppose I could tell you how I feel:

Truthfully, rather tired.

Not that this stopped all the speedo-lounging-pub-frequenting-hike-seeking fun, but it is frankly and unabashedly how I feel at the moment.

I’ve done the whole traveling-without-a-home-base thing before when I gallivanted solo around Europe in 2013 – when I was twenty and hearty and didn’t have a clue what hangovers were.

(just wait ‘till your twenty first birthday, you crazy animal)

And it went brilliantly – I’d spend a couple of days in each sparkling new city before flying off to newer and shinier cities. My legs never grew weary, my eyes never glazed over, my heart pounded afresh at each new place – my twenty year old self a being pumped full of independence and confidence and robustness.

Now, I’m not trying to say that at twenty three I’m suddenly this horrible great lugging monster who only lifts her sulking scaly head at the sound of a dinner bell or an open Netflix tab –

Though I’m not opposed to either of those suggestions

But more that after a few more trips and travels under my belt and a more solid idea of what the word home means, the deprivation of such a word seems to settle in more markedly this time around.

When my quest is to find comfort in the uncomfortable, I find myself asking: how can I find a home in my homeless state of travel? When my suitcase hasn’t been fully unloaded since a month and a half ago in Tel Aviv? When a simple questionnaire asks for my current address and I must leave it blank?

— How can I be comfortable when discomfort swarms constantly, menacingly around me?


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