Thirteen months ago, I came back and Cleveland was the same, but I was different.  People didn’t know how to approach me and I didn’t feel the way I did when I left.  I had missed out on the movies and music and TV of the last eight months. I didn’t know what Jersey Shore was and I hadn’t seen Avatar.  I thought Boom Boom Pow was new (it wasn’t).  And I had missed the closing of this bar and the opening of that one.  Everything was new to me and old to everyone else and the strangest thing about coming home was that I was the foreigner. 

Eventually that would become less evident, as I caught up on entertainment and sports and my friends lives that I hadn’t kept up with as well as I should have.  Over the last year (and one month) I have seamlessly blended myself back into life in the US and from the outside it all looks normal.  But every so often I think about where I was a year ago at this time and I miss the Christmas stalls in the plazas of Madrid.  And I swear I can still smell Morocco- that unforgettable mix of spices, hookah, motorbikes, and sweet orange juice.  And as the months progress, I will remember each place for everything it was: the smells, tastes, sounds, and ambiance.  The people.  How they looked and how they spoke. 

I was home for two months before moving out to Los Angeles to pursue a new career.  So what have I learned?  What information can I glean from the experience that physically ended a little over a year ago, but remains at the forefront of my mind?  A few things, actually.  (Come on, you didn’t think it would end and that would be it, did you?)  It took me some time and distance to get the appropriate perspective on the entire eight-month situation and, to be honest, I think I’m still discovering how the adventure changed me.

Perhaps a summary and some final thoughts are in order…

1. I am way better at bad/gross/tough living conditions than I thought.  I’m less appalled by dirt/grime/having to change my own sheets in a hostel when I don’t have a choice.  The most important thing is getting in off the street and into bed before having to wake up early to go see pyramids or get on a bus to the next place.  I’m ok with packing grimy laundry next to clean laundry.  And I know things aren’t always as dirty as I think they are.  Sometimes they are worse.
2. I am more tolerant of some people and less tolerant of many more.  The phrase “you don’t know a man until you’ve walked a mile in his shoes” comes to mind.  I’ve walked many miles and there are some views I still don’t agree with, namely those of intolerance.  And there are some I have come to see as wholly accurate.  As in, yes, Americans are the loudest tourists out there.  It’s embarrassing on the one hand.  On the other, you know where you can always find your own.  And how horrible their flight was/hotel conditions are/latest family drama caused by taking this “overly-expensive-during-a-recession” vacation. 
3. People will question anything you do that’s out of the ordinary.  They will tell you that you’re crazy and criticize you down to the last detail of your plan (or lack there of).  They’ll tell you it’s not the right time or that you should stay and work the job you despise because it provides security.  And sadly, som will disagree with you to the point where you have nothing in common anymore.  They won’t understand you and you won’t understand them and they’ll fade out of your life.  Sadly, they will question you until they see you have actually made it work.  Then they’ll just think it’s cool.  (And they’re right.  It is cool.)
4. Nothing seems as challenging after breaking out of the gripping thought that “I have to take this path because it is normal and the one that is expected of me”.
5. There’s still so much to see and I have only begun to explore this giant world.  And it’s not just the places that I have left to explore.  There are cultures to experience, different foods to try, holidays to celebrate, people to meet.  There are ideas (both good and bad) swirling out there in the world, floating in and out of different countries and the only way to truly understand them is to go and be involved in them.  Talk to the people, but more importantly just ask questions and listen.  Know that I’m not always right and I don’t always know, but I’m always willing to learn.  And sometimes that’s more valuable than all the information in the world.
6. Whether you stay at the Ritz or a hole in the wall with a tiny bathroom that barely holds the sink, toilet, and stall shower, the Eiffel Tower is the Eiffel Tower and that’s what’s important to me.  I have the rest of my life to search for the perfect, ergonomically correct bed and a marble bathtub.  It’s all part of the journey and as long as it’s decently clean and the hot water runs for at least 10 minutes, I can deal with that.
7. As for Eric and me… what did I learn there?  Say you’re sorry and let it go.  Even when you want to defenestrate someone, you don’t always have that choice (and sometimes you’re on the first floor, so what good would it do anyway?).  You need a good partner when you’re a world away and that’s all you have.  Lean on someone else.  Exploit your strengths and know you’re weaknesses (um, like don’t try to cook or find directions to anything.  But those are just examples…).  And even though we are no longer together, I will always look back on this experience with love and appreciation.  He was part of every memory and I don’t regret that.  Not even for a minute.
8. Finally: Dorothy said it best: there’s no place like home.  Because after everything I had experienced and every boat, train, bus, plane, and taxi that took me to a new destination and left me wide-eyed upon exiting, my heart still nearly exploded with excitement upon seeing my parents waiting for me at the airport in my hometown.  No matter where I go or what I do, that feeling will always remain.  And there’s nothing in the world that can change that.

And now I’m out in LA working on a new career in a new place.  I’m starting over again.  And though the language and currency are familiar, the culture is foreign to me.  I have had to make new friends and create something out of nothing.  It hasn’t been easy so far, but honestly, if I can go (almost) around the world, I must be able to do this. 

Maybe that’s the most important thing I learned from all this: all it takes is a little courage and the belief that no matter what, I will succeed.  So here we go again; today has become the new adventure.

Thank you for reading. 

Rachel

Hot tears roll uncontrollably down my warm cheeks.  Sunglasses hide my puffy red eyes, but it’s undeniable.  Eric looks at me across the table and I know he’s not sure what to say.  I pull my tan Scottish pashmina tighter around my shoulders and bring my knees in closer to my chest.  I look over La Boqueria Mercado from our balcony in the Barcelona hotel.  It’s a beautiful hotel balcony in a beautiful hotel room in a beautiful city in a beautiful country.  And though we started our journey in London (or some might say the JFK airport in New York City), I will always consider Spain our first big adventure.  We did this country together, navigated a life here and made it work.  Now it’s almost over.  One more stop in Madrid to end it just how we began it all and then we end this journey.  Madrid will be so much fun.  One last time going to our bar and one more walk down the streets we had made our own.  A stroll past our apartment and a trip to our favorite Mercado.  Yes, I was still excited for that one last part of our excursion, but for now, sitting in this amazing place with a perfect blue sky overhead and the noise of the market below, there was only one truth.  We were almost done.  

There had been so many cities in so many countries on three different continents.  We had seen so much, experienced so much.  We had tasted foods in their native countries.  We had nights where we partied until the next morning.  We had quiet nights walking through the parks of Poland and Spain, France and England.  We had tasted chocolate where it had originated.  We had celebrated Thanksgiving where they don’t, Chanuka where they (mostly) don’t, and Christmas where they definitely did.  We had gone to the biggest New Year’s celebration Madrid had ever seen.  We had found people who loved Americans, people who hated Americans.  We had stayed safe; we had felt as though we were in danger.  We had navigated these places on our own.  We had found our own hotels and transportation.  We had… so many things and now we were coming to an end we had prolonged as long as we could.  We knew it was coming, but in this moment, there was only one truth.  We were almost done.

Salty tears of sadness at the inevitable outcome, tears of unspeakable joy.  We had done it!  We had really done this adventure!  We had seen so much, experienced so much and we had done it our way.  It was Eric and me.  Alone in the world and we had made it through.  Sometimes there are no words.  Sometimes I just can’t get them out.

“It’s ok,” was what he said.

“I know.  I love you.”  I said.  I couldn’t say all the things I was thinking.  We had really made it.  The two of us in this great big world.  I smiled at Eric, even as the tears continued to fall.  I looked up at the big open sky.  “I know,” I said again.

Until tomorrow and the new adventure…

Rachel

Paris.  Arc de Triomphe.  Eiffel Tower.  The Louvre.  A grave at Pere Lachaise.  On the Pont Alexandre III bridge. 

Jim Morrison’s grave at Pere Lachaise

There’s nothing better than being with the person you love in the city of love.  The weather always plays a factor and today is perfect: sunny and warm with a slight breeze that ripples through the supple green leaves of the trees that surround us.  I can sit and talk and waste the time away and, when there’s nothing left to say, I can stare at him and wonder how it is that I took so long to get to him.  It seems like I’ve known him my whole life, but it’s only now that I’m truly seeing him. 

And at first there are so many questions.  They come to my mind in crashing waves and each one generates five more and then five more after that and they don’t stop.  I ask them so quickly and they’re all strung together; he can’t even answer.  I’ve known him forever and never been able to ask.  Now is the time; he’s right here with me, in Paris, but I’m too excited and the thoughts won’t slow long enough to get a response.

And I start to tell him about me.  I have thoughts like his.  Sometimes.  But sometimes is enough for me to know that we’re alike on some level.  He must understand me.  I know he would if I could just get out all of these ideas.  I know him and I need him to know me.  I ramble on and he’s just there and I hope he sees how I feel so connected to him.  But he doesn’t say a word.

So I go on to tell him, repeat back to him, the things he has said in the past.  I use his words and hope that the sound of me saying them makes him understand that they are shared thoughts.  I’ve had these ideas too, these feelings, but I couldn’t articulate them the way he could.  I could never even whisper it quietly to myself in the right way.  That was his job.  And here I stand with the one person who should understand it all and I’ve told him everything, asked him every question.  I’ve exposed myself because I believe he’ll understand me in this way.  He remains silent. 

I stare, and he doesn’t say a word.

Eric gently squeezes my shoulder and asks me if I’m ready to go. 

‘But I haven’t gotten an answer yet!  He hasn’t said anything!’ I want to yell.  But Eric’s touch roughly reality forces itself into my face and the world is the world again and he’s still there and I’m still there, but it’s not just us anymore.  I look around.  People are toasting him with cheap beer.  Others just stare.  And Eric asks me again if I’m ready to go.  I’m not, but there’s no use in staying any longer.  He won’t answer me.

I turn from him and start to walk out of the cemetery.  I know he’s not really there: just bones in a wooden box.  A headstone placed at his grave by his father reads: ΚΑΤΑ ΤΟΝ ΔΑΙΜΟΝΑ ΕΑΥΤΟΥ, “true to his own spirit”.  And that’s all I’m left with; that phrase and my iPod are the only answers I’ll ever get from him.   

Eric and I leave the cemetery to find the next whiskey bar and raise up a glass in honor of Jim Morrison.  I think he’d appreciate that.

Until tomorrow and the new adventure…

Rachel

Rome.  Pro-Palestinian protest.  The Pantheon.  The Coliseum.

Rome.  The city of great men, great monuments, (great shopping), the Pope, a slew of amazing artwork, and a pro-Palestinian rally?  Um, sure why not?  It is Europe, after all.  At the end of a very long day of monument hopping and window-shopping, Eric and I were headed toward the Vittoriano, the large white columned building dedicated to the first King of Italy.  It was hot.  I was tired and dehydrated.  I wanted Eric to carry me.  Not surprisingly (and not for the first time in this trip), he said no.  As we neared the colossal building, the feeling started to change.  Flags were beginning to wave, though their colors were not green, white, and red.  People were starting to gather peacefully, but there was obvious tension swirling as well. 

(Now after all these months traveling together and for the year before this, I have learned that willfully or not, Eric seems to stumble into areas of conflict.  I can’t tell you how many protests just “happened to be going on” during a random Tuesday out in Madrid.  I’m starting to suspect foul play.  Anyway, back to the protest at hand.)

The signs were in Italian, so I couldn’t make out the exact wording, but a Palestinian flag is a clear symbol in these times.  So is a giant Jewish star with an X through it.  Fabulous.  I’m tired, dehydrated, and hated by the masses.  Oh, and yes, we’re staying for the speeches.  As the crowd grew, their leaders became evident.  They sang in solidarity, responded loudly to any voice booming over the megaphone, and followed dutifully as the march led down each stone street.  Tourists turned to stare and though I was walking with the photographers, I felt ashamed.  Did they think I was pro-Palestinian/anti-Israeli?  Some visitors were even filming the march.  I turned away and tried to hide my face.  Eric asked if I was ok.  “Yes.”  What was I supposed to say?

The diplomatic side of me started the internal debate first. ‘They’re allowed to speak their mind too, you know.’

The emotional side responded. ‘Yes, I know that, but I don’t necessarily want to be caught in the thick of it.’

‘It’s not America.  They don’t even know which side you’re on and they will assume theirs if you don’t say anything.  Besides there are more of them than you.  You’re on their turf.’

‘Well, technically it’s Italian soil, but I see your point.’  Even if I don’t like it.

‘Um, this is an internal debate. I can still hear you.’ Good point.

And I do agree with the diplomatic side; they should get their say as well, even if I don’t see eye to eye with it.  It was my choice to walk with them, my choice to be mistaken as a supporter by tourists and police.  And that’s all it would be if I was in the background of a picture that made it to the web: a mistake.  But it would be an uncomfortable mistake.  I was uncomfortable being there. 

And as that emotional side started to clear its throat to speak one more time, the diplomatic side wisely intervened.  I didn’t go on this journey to be comfortable mentally, emotionally, or (sometimes) physically.  I wanted to be thrown off kilter and confused and lost in the world as each country and culture moved around me and I just tried to find my way into and through it.  If I understood it all, I wouldn’t be here.

Just like that, I found security in my discomfort. 

Until tomorrow and the new adventure…

Rachel

Florence.  Il Duomo.  Medici.  In the Piazza. Ponte Vecchio/Amo River.  Laundry day.  

Veins arch out of his muscular hand, displaying controlled power.  He looks to his left, solemnly though, and I can’t be sure what he’s thinking.  Can he be contemplating his own strength?  His actions?  He did kill someone, that’s true, or will.  (I think this is before all that took place, but no one can really know.)  As he stands before me here, I can’t see how he could be capable.  His gaze is pensive and I can’t see into his eyes.  I know that even if I could, I would never know what is behind them.  Intent.  Determination.  Malice.  No emotion hides there.  It’s only white marble, after all. 

But David, Michelangelo’s masterpiece, draws me in and I can almost believe he’s real.  His body language and his expression both show an emotion far from cold stone.  A story of a man’s crowning moment told in cold, immovable clarity.  Of course, historians have studied every inch of it, trying to explain it.  I’m not sure what there is to explain.  It seems like Michelangelo captured a private moment – when a man makes the decision to take action and it changes his life – and set it in stone for the world to see.  It seems bold to me.  Many artists have chosen to paint David slaying Goliath, which is indeed important.  But Michelangelo chose the moment before (as many historians suppose this piece depicts and I’m inclined to agree).  Once the action has been decided on, that’s the excitement, the moment most artists then – and photographers today – desire.  But what about the moment of choice?  It’s a rare occasion when the public gets to see that and isn’t that what’s really important?

How often do we think about something while we’re doing it?  Before, yes.  That’s when we decide, weigh all the options, and see if it is a good choice.  After, yes.  That’s when we see if our expectations were met or, if they weren’t, how we should proceed.  And another “before” takes place.  It’s the most important part of any action and yet we are rarely privy to another’s “before”.  Sure, we are asked advice or seek advice ourselves, but isn’t it usually to support whatever we have come up with privately?  Don’t we already know what we want to do and are only seeking approval for our own insecurities?

I like this guy David.  He went on to become King of the Jews, Slayer of Goliath, Voyer of Bathsheba, Writer of Psalms.  He’s got a certain popular mystique.  But right here, as Michelangelo has portrayed him, he’s just a guy trying to contemplate a difficult decision and reach the correct answer.  Aren’t we all.

Until tomorrow and the new adventure…

Rachel

Venice, Italy.