In short, my life, has looked remotely similar, to this…
Please note the look of sheer enthusiasm of the facial expression.
Turns out that whole physics thing really wasn’t working for me in regards of the suitcase space left up for rent, or lack thereof as the case appeared to have been.
But regardless, packing up to leave the country, and cleaning the room entirely spick and span in a matter of one sleepless night and a single very long extended morning, led to a couple unexpected discoveries.
The first being that I, as the responsible, mature, independent individual that I long aspire to be, or at least intend to prove to my mother that I am, decided to do multiple loads of very large laundry before departure. No doubt with the very intention of ironing and packing each sock neatly in place.
It sounded nice in theory.
The best part of all would be the long loop I could take around the washer on my way home. Knowing that I had managed to defy the law of college students and bring home not a laundry basket toppled of dirty clothes, but instead a single suitcase smelling of springtime and sunshine, with the help of a little laundry detergent.
Madre nature, I suppose, felt it her duty to ensure that my own earthly mom gets to spend a little more time mother henning me. Because she managed to rain one beast of a Thai blizzard all over my happy go lucky clothes all hung up to dry.
Inevitably resulting in that theoretical pinstriped pristine portion of apparel, becoming more like one soggy, heavy mush of moldy clothes shoved into a plastic shopping bag and down into the depths of that extendable pocket on the bottom of my luggage. With hopes of not getting stopped by airport security in lieu of the stench.
Second adventure, more of a pivitol discovery…there is, or, was, I believe is more accurate, a wall in my room dedicated entirely to thoughts.
Letters, notes, doodles, grocery lists, price tags, pieces of paper with what seemed like a really great idea before I woke up the next morning written on them, basic conscious flow of thought.
It was a really beautiful wall, and what was even more attractive…were the zillions of trillions of pieces of adhesives I’d attached to my wall for stickage, without necessarily contemplating the consequences of removal.
Twas a very poignant moment, however when I was able to witness the finesse of true friendship, as my morning crew stuck around clawing their fingernails up and down the plaster in a means of un-sticking the little black biotches of sticky from my wall.
The after affect however was less than pleasing, with significantly less paint on the wall than the pre-adhesive era.
We miraculously discovered that shoving the big armoire affront the wall was just the right height to cover up any and all damage, leaving just a couple inches of exposed stickiness atop, bless the lord almighty asians tend to be among the smaller stock.
And most disheartening of all, I had to bid farewell to Matt, my balcony plant.
I’d tediously cared for Matt since he was a young thing, and took notice not to step on him during late night balcony talks, rants, or flight attempts.
I think the worst part of all was the knowledge that most likely Matt wouldn’t make it through the first official post-tenant apartment cleaning. But I’d push that thought away knowing that with my excessively green thumb, I’d kept him sturdy and strong in my several months of habitation.
This probably, most certainly looks like absolutely nothing to you.
Just another empty hotel room.
Big bed, wide windows, too-small dresser.
But that’s not it at all, because this is Ed’s room.
Which is exactly why I couldn’t help but cry when I stopped outside this room towards the end of my time at Webster.
Ed’s room, all cleared out, all clean and empty and gone of anything Ed.
Ed, I’d like to say, was my bald headed mentor, call him Buddha, call him God, Krishna, he was what he was, and he is what he is.
Ed was the type of guy that revealed himself in slices.
You’d get the first couple sentences of a story, and then he’d shy off, promising to finish it again later. A few weeks go by, and you’d maybe get a few more details, and then a handful more.
Ed was like that, every time I learned a bit about him, he started to make a little more sense.
For gods sake he was so young. But considerably older than the rest of us.
It’s like Ed was never entirely certain what to do with himself, little Red Riding Hood, lost on his way to Grandmothers house.
And then there’s stories of last suppers, tears of goodbye, maps of meeting points and where to find each other in twenty years, promises of future journeys, and a late night sleepover on the cold airport tile with only the comforting sound of squeaking luggage, and the sweet stench of early morning cigarettes.
And then there’s home.
It’s prompted me to wonder, must the art of travel cease once we’ve reached home base?
People come here, I go there, it’s all the same difference.
The smallest of site swaps, a modest sized portion of location ADHD, and we’re all jumbled about.
I suppose travel is what one makes of it.
Wherever one makes of it.
The good, the bad, the ugly.
This, the right now, is the impatient part of the journey, the part where I’m back at home base, itching to get out again.
Time to refuel, before hitting the road.
And in the meantime, let this site act as a thought box, a shelter for homeless ideas, a funnel for the wandering, whimsical wishes.
A reflection on a journey, snippets of travel, a treasure trove of tales to keep the my equilibrium in balance until I set off again humming, knapsack in hand.
And until then, I shan’t let myself get too drastically comfortable.
A dear friend recently asked me, “You’ve still got ants in your pants, and you’re hungry for travel aren’t you?”
I couldn’t help but respond, “There’s a leopard in my pants, and it’s biting my arse off.”