nothing

One of my goals this year is to get better at doing nothing. As any of you who have traveled know, America is one of the busiest, stressed cultures in the world. We work 60 hour work weeks in an effort to climb to the apex of our careers, just so we can sit at the top of our corporate kingdoms and . . . fall asleep because we have no more energy. I guess that's why Red Bull is so popular. We walk fast, we drive fast, and god forbid you stand on the left side of the metro escalator! Be prepared to be pummeled down by some tiny, heel-clad yo-po (young professional) on her way to capitol hill. We expect our checks to be on the table by the time we're chewing our last bite at dinner. Oh the horrors of actually sitting and talking for awhile after the meal is over. They need our table! Turnover! And don't even get me started on the nutritional atrocities we commit in the name of not having to leave our vehicles to get food! No wonder heart disease is the number one killer of Americans.

Ok, I'll get off my soapbox now. But being in Europe where people take 3 hours for dinner, get 4 weeks of vacation a year - minimum, and have a glass of wine or beer over a work lunch has made me think about my lifestyle here. Here are some things I've done recently to get better at doing nothing:

- Aside from the quit/unquit meeting with my boss, I have refused to go into work this week. Our meetings don't officially start until Monday, and although most teachers are busily scurrying around their classrooms organizing and sharpening and labeling like hyper chipmunks on a Staples high, I'm happy to let the shit pile up in my room until next week.

- I have spent the last 2 nights sitting on the porch with my new roomates, doing nothing. After dinner, we just sit and talk, and watch the very colorful happenings on our little urban street. (We saw a very interesting lover's spat last night between a very gangly-looking, shy man and his powerhouse of a girlfriend whose chest alone could take out a small animal. We would have taken bets on the winner, but the odds seemed rather unfairly stacked.)

- I seem to be in a contest with myself to see how long I can go without showering every day. I sit around in my pajamas (which is really just a wife-beater and underwear) for as long as I can possibly hold out each day. Eventually, I have to go somewhere, or my own stank just overwhelms me, and I give in. I know I can't do this much longer, so I'm lingering in the dirty phase while I can.

Lazy? Some would say, yes. But I like to think I'm just being mindful. I'm living here and now and taking my time to taste the air and experience each, lingering moment as they slowly roll by. sniff, sniff. What's that smell? What? It's coming from me? Oh dear.

Little things

Signs that I am adjusting/accepting my life here:
- I finally took all of my makeup and jewelry out of the little makeup bags they've been living in for the past 2 months and put them in jewelry boxes and baskets on my dresser. They are no longer travel-ready.
- I returned the backpack I borrowed for my trip to my friend. I feel like I've lost a limb.
- I bought sheets and a comforter for my new bed. Wait, even bigger - I bought a new bed! (Well, a new used one.)
- I went grocery shopping and spent more than $12 for the first time since I left my husband in February. Chipotle is about to lose some business.

Signs that I am still not wholly here (on account of a giant chunk of me being left in Paris somewhere):
- I bounced my checking account for the first time in years. I'm usually really good at that. I just don't want to think about money yet. Donations, anyone?
- I threw away about half of my belongings when I moved. I think a little part of me still wants to be ready to pick up and leave at a moment's notice.
- I check my facebook account about 20 times a day for new photos or messages from my travel friends who are still tramping around Europe.
- I start every conversation with someone new with "I just got back from traveling through Europe all summer alone." Like they care. I've been home for 3 weeks now. Get over it.

Reality

Today, I was showing my Europe photo albums to two of my roommates' boyfriends: Holo and Hubert. Holo hadn't realized that I had travelled all around Europe this summer, but he did know that I quit and then un-quit my job in the past 2 days. When I brought out the photos, he said, "Oh that's why you quit your job! You've been backpacking all summer and you lost touch with reality." Hubert pointed at one of the photos on the page where I was especially glowing with uninhibited-traveller-glee and said, "No man, look at her face. She found reality."

Calendar Girl

I am officially back on the calendar. No, not as Miss January - as in I am ready to acknowledge the existence of days of the week and dates and months and all that. I have been allowing several emails to pile up in my inbox; emails from co-workers, parents of my students, and parents of my tutoring clients mostly. They want to know when I am free to do such-and-such or what I think about this-and-that decision. I have partially been avoiding responding to them because it has felt too overwhelming, but mostly because I am not ready to make appointments. I don't have a planner. For the past 2 months, I have never known what day of the week it was. Sometimes, in Europe, I'd walk outside and see that most everything I wanted to see that day was closed and go, "Oh shit. It's Sunday again." And then when I came home, I had to remember that I was having lunch with this friend on Tuesday or supposed to pick up my photos on Thursday - stuff like that. But I certainly have not been ready to make committments more than a day in advance, and the only reason I even knew it was halfway through August was that my paycheck was deposited on the 15th (thank god).

But today, after a meeting with my boss to solidify my un-quit status (much to his delight, I must say), I drove to Staples and bought my teacher plan book for the year. Wow. I am afraid that you all might not truly appreciate the weight of this action. For the next 9 months, this book will be my lifeblood. I will write everything in it, from what math lesson to teach, to who's homework I'm still missing, to doctor's appointments, and sometimes even just doodles and stray stickers. This rectangular piece of plastic and paper is my committment to live where I'm living and do what I'm doing at least until next June. Now I can reply to those emails and say, "Yes, I'll be there next Monday at 11," because I have somewhere to write it down.

I humbly bow to the gods of days, months, and years, and acknowledge that what they have made is good. But I'm still not going to write anything down more than a week in advance. . .

I un-quit.

Just what it says. More later. This life stuff is truly invigorating and exhausting sometimes.

weirdness.

I'm supposed to be packing up my apartment right now, because I'm moving to a new place in the city tomorrow. But it's 10:30, and I haven't packed a thing. Instead, I've been looking through old documents and photos on my computer, like a virtual memory box. This computer is only 5 years old (I know, that's ancient in computer land), but the stuff I found saved in it truly feels like another lifetime. The first photo above is me trying on my wedding dress in the shop for the first time. I'm enthralled. The second one is my old cat, Marx. I brought her home from the shelter one day in an effort to fill the gap that was ever-widening between my husband and me. It didn't work. She had to go back to the shelter. Unfortunately, sometimes cats (and people) get hurt in separations. The last photo is me with my first class at the school where I teach. We are on a science field trip on the Chesapeake Bay.

Among the old word documents I unearthed were:
- a 3-year-old letter to my cable company over a billing discrepancy - it was pretty heated (oh the things I used to have energy for)
- a 2 year-old letter to my health insurance fighting for a surgery that they initially denied (I won)
- both my and my husband's wedding vows (that was a fun one to read)
- a mortgage application (another thing we threw at our marriage in vain attempt to bridge that damn gap)
- a recipe for my mom's vegetable soup
- a parking ticket appeal (I've spent a little too much time fighting the man)

What a random smattering of shit from all aspects of my life - from the most mundane to the most influential. Why do we keep these things? I'm feeling unbelievably existential tonight. Technically, I quit my job today. I told my boss that I just can't come back. And this was after he offered me this lead teaching position. But he wants me to sleep on it and call him tomorrow morning. I don't know what I'll do. And I don't really want any advice, as well-meaning as it may be. I've got to figure this one out on my own.

Grape Italian Ice

Tonight I went to get Rita's with my Dad, my brother, my sister-in-law, and my perfect 3 year-old nephew, Brian. (My other perfect nephew, Davey, had to stay home because he was being not-so-perfect earlier by throwing a baseball bat at Brian's head in frustration at Brian's 3 year-old pitching abilities. No Rita's for Davey.) Our t-shirt and shorts-clad crew sat clutching our end of summer treats under the bright lights of the red and white awning. The sky was a slate blue dusk, illuminated by what Brian dubbed, the "spooky moon." What a quintessential American scene for my return home after Europe.

Brian likes to "share" his food. That means he forces a little spoonful of his italian ice into your mouth, (dripping most of it onto your shorts), so he can feel justified helping himself to as much of your italian ice as he would like. But every time he would take a spoonful of grape ice out of his little cup, he'd leave some hanging over the side, dripping down over the wax coating. His mother noticed this, as mothers will. So every so often, when he was busy eating my chocolate banana gelati, she would absentmindendly wipe the side of his cup. She also noticed that between all of his "sharing" from our dishes, he was quickly consuming more than a kid-sized amount of pure liquid sugar. So in addition to wiping his cup, she began taking secret scoops of his ice and eating them herself, therby protecting him from sure sugar-frenzy-madness or a stomachache later on.

No one really noticed this act but me, and the way she was doing it, it's like she wasn't even thinking about it herself. But something about those little wipes and bites really touched me. I thought, what would it be like for us if every time we turned around, someone cleaned up our little messes behind our backs? If they secretly ate our gelati when they knew we were about to have too much?

I guess eventually we need to turn into our own mothers. We need to figure out when to wipe, and when to just let it drip; when to eat out of every italian ice dish we can get our hands on, and when to put the plastic spoon down. But for now, Brian's job was just to bounce around, happily slurping slush and dancing to the music in his head, while mom cleaned up the trail of purple left behind.

MY time

Since I have returned from Europe, there is one thing that I have been avoiding - and I mean avoiding like cockroaches avoid the light. Work. Not work in general, as in laundry, cooking, and carrying heavy objects - I mean my occupation. You know, the place I'm supposed to go every day so I can continue to feed myself and take long, frivolous trips around Europe. Just the sight of a Back-to-School sign outside a department store is enough to make me want to put another flight to Paris on my credit card - pronto. Seriously, I have only had two feelings in regards to returning to work - fear, and dread.


Well I couldn't continue that way for long, since I had to spend this entire week in New York City with two colleagues for a teaching writing conference at Columbia. I spent Monday morning slumped down into my plastic, stackable chair in a large auditorium full of smiling teachers wearing clogs and carrying unnecessarily large tote bags. I listened to the presenter take something I love (writing) and neatly place it into organized categories with cutsie labels. "These are the steps to writing," she chirped cheerfully into the microphone. I tried to resist the urge to stab myself slowly with the plastic knife I had used to spread cream cheese on my sesame bagel.

I can't do this, I thought. I am a free spirit. I need to be unhindered so I can fly around the world and experience all that life has to offer! I love children, but I don't love teaching them these rules and routines. There is no magic in this! And what about all the political drama at school? I will have to start going to staff meetings and parents will want to know what I plan to do with their child and. . .ahh! By the time the morning session was over, I had convinced myself that I could no longer be a teacher; that I could not return to that work or any work. I was feverishly whipping up plans in my head to sell my car, waitress at night, work on writing a book during the day, and continue playing with my band. Then I would move overseas and teach English, or maybe the Peace Corps - that is, of course, if I didn't become a famous writer or singer first.

But, no. My kids. It was my students that brought me back to reality. If I just worked at a job with all adults in some office, I would have no qualms about marching right in and saying, "Hey guys it's been real, but I'm off to explore the world and be poor for a few years. Peace." In fact, I have quit many jobs in such an abrupt, unceremonious manner. But I don't just teach to help kids learn the steps to writing or make sure they know how to organize their math binder. I teach because my kids inspire me. They remind me that life is fresh every day, and that there is no end to new things to learn and be amazed by. They are counting on me to come back and be their teacher this year. I would never forgive myself if I ran off now.

So, avoiding the uncomfortable feelings was no longer an option. I would have to actually face them. During the afternoon session, I started journaling (yeah, honestly I didn't get a lot out of the conference that first day). I asked myself the really hard questions. Why did I really feel this way about returning to work? What was behind this dread? All of a sudden, it hit me. I was afraid I would no longer own my time. Let me explain.

Pre-Europe, I longed for someone to manage my life for me. It all just felt like too much. I would even have fantasies about getting in some sort of mild car accident that would be just bad enough to land me in the hospital with some fixable injuries for a week or so, where I would be lovingly cared for and I wouldn't have to make any decisions on my own - not even about what to eat. But then I went to Europe by myself all summer, and I was forced to be in charge of myself again. You know the deal - I became my own best friend and all that. I realized that for every second of every day for the entire summer, I have been entirely in charge of my own life. I haven't had to answer to anyone for anything I've done. I didn't have to go anywhere I didn't want to, eat anything that didn't look appealing, or wake up at any certain time (except when I had to meet the bus in the mornings, but I'd just roll out of bed and onto the bus, where I would resume sleeping immediately).

My real fear about returning to work stemmed from my desire to continue owning my time. I was afraid that as soon as I stepped back into that building, people would start pulling at me, taking pieces of me and doing with them what they pleased. "Melanie, we need to you to come to this meeting." "Melanie, could we schedule a conference with you immediately?" "Melanie, could you type that up and send it to the staff by the end of the day, please?" Um, no thanks.

But whose fault is it when we feel like we are not in charge of our own lives? That's right - ours. The solution to my fear is not to avoid responsibility and work, but to take what I've learned on this trip and apply back in my life here. I do want to have a life full of adventure, but I don't need to be on the Swiss Alps to experience that. I need to learn to own my time and continue cultivating this rich, inner life while working. And if I give it my best shot and still get bogged down, well, then I'll consider a career change. Perhaps a skydiving instructor. . .

dessert

"Did I eat enough to get dessert?" that was my daily dinner question for my mother. It didn't matter what the dinner was, whether it was tacos (which I loved) or beef stroganoff (which I hated - really mom, what were you thinking?), I just wanted to rush through it to get to dessert.

I can't help but see a little of my sugar-crazed, childhood self in me now. As I experience this recent bout of growth, I have been becoming more and more comfortable with being alone. You've read my blog entries - finding my way in foreign cities, finally not feeling cold in my bed at night, rediscovering my songwriting abilities, etc. To the casual observer, I have grown into a downright independent woman - the real, live thing. I walk confidently, speak my mind, love my body, and certainly don't need a man to be happy.

But, if I'm completely, painfully honest, I can still hear that little 7-year-old inside asking, "Did I eat enough to get dessert?" I can't help it. There is still a part of me that thinks I will be rewarded for all of this growth with - what else - a man. That somehow the point of all this introspective solitude is to prepare me to be with another man; to be more successful in my next relationship. I guess it probably stems from my Christian wives-submit-to-your-husbands training from back in the day. The whole, "just look sweet and love God and He will reward you with a husband to take care of you" mentality. (Please, nobody email me Bible verses. I appreciate the thought, but I know them already.) How absurd. How embarrassing.

I am ashamed to think of all the perfectly delicious, nutritious dinners that I didn't even taste, because I just wanted to get to dessert. And you know what the real karma was? I often didn't even enjoy dessert once it came, because I had made myself nauseous from inhaling my meal. I need to learn to love this time in my life for its own, unique perfection, not just as a stopover on the way to something sweeter. Because, the reality is, many meals don't end in dessert. But it doesn't make them any less nourishing, or any less delicious.

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

Hello. This is only a test. Do not be alarmed. This is a test of the Melanie Cobb blogging company to see if anyone is out there. Is anyone other than Melanie's mother continuing to read this blog? She will continue writing no matter what, because it's a sick form of therapy for her now, but she's curious about her audience. Don't be afraid to post comments folks! The man behind the curtain actually wants to be paid attention to. Remember, this is only a test.

independent woman ring

So before I left for my trip, I was visiting a good friend of mine. She called me out on her front porch, asked me to sit down, and said, "I have something for you to borrow for your trip." She took this beautiful ring off her finger, and put it on my left ring finger (where the indent had finally gone away from my wedding ring). It's a silver ring with an amorphous woman's form. You can see her outline, her hand over head, and her hair tumbling over her shoulders. She is sort of swimming in these silver waves that wrap around my finger. My friend said to me, "This is my independent woman ring. I bought it for myself at a time in my life when I needed to remember that I was really all I needed; that I am truly my own best friend. I want you to wear it for your trip. Anytime you get lonely or scared, just hold that ring and remember that you have the strength. And I don't want it back, so just pass it on to another woman on your trip who might need it, whenever you're done."

I wore that ring like it was my left lung. As the plane glided down onto the runway at the Paris ariport, I squeezed my ring finger, feeling the cool metal grooves of the waves. One time when I got lost coming home in Amsterdam, I started to panic, but then I stopped, held my ring for a minute, and eventually found my way. On a stretcher, all alone in the hallway of a German hospital at 3am, waiting to have my ankle x-rayed, I held that ring for strength. Then, when no one offerred to help me with my bag when I was on crutches, I looked down at my ring, took a deep breath, and hoisted that baby on my back while standing on my one good leg. But something happened over the course of my trip. Sometimes, towards the end, I would rush out of my hostel in the morning and forget to put it on. In the beginning of my trip, I would put it on often before my clothes so I wouldn't forget. But by the last week, there were times when I would look down at my finger in the evening and notice that I hadn't had it on all day. I was growing not to need it anymore.

When I returned home earlier this week, I had lunch with the friend who let me borrow the ring. I told her how much I used it and appreciated it during my travels. I told her I also kept my eye out for another woman who might need it, but I didn't really come across anyone who fit the description. I felt sort of badly about it. I didn't want to hog the ring now that I felt like I didn't need it anymore, but I just didn't meet anyone else who seemed. . . "worthy." She told me just to hang on to it until I found someone.

Well a couple of days later, she called me rather upset, because she and her serious boyfriend of over a year had just broken up. She is one of the strongest, most self-realized people I know, but she was telling me over the phone about how she was scared to be alone now. They had been discussing marriage, and she didn't want to be lonely now that she was so suddenly single again. I said, "You know what? I think it's time I give you your ring back. I knew there was a reason I couldn't find anyone else."

Does this mean I am forever independent and strong? That I am better than her or any of the other single women out there feeling cold and alone in that big bed tonight? Of course not. But I think we take our turns through the valleys, and at the top of the peaks. My friend was there for me through my valley, and now, as I stand at the top of what feels like a small, but very victorious hill, I gladly turn to her and reach down my hand - with nothing on my fingers but a little dirt from the climb.

down from the mountaintop

Well I hope you all read my mom's comment on my last post. I loved it because it was the most quintessentially mom thing to do - post on your daugher's blog telling everyone how great she is, while injecting a hearty dose of hard-knock-life reality. Time to come down off the mountaintop, eh? Yeah. I guess that's exactly what I'm hoping never to do. And hearing my mom say that it's time to do that makes me want to not do it even more!

Let me explain, lest you misunderstand my comment for simple, adolescent, blind rebellion. I love my mother. And I know she loves me. And I am not in any way offended by her friendly suggestion that it's time for me to get back to "real life." Nor was I offended by my ex-husband's resistance to travel, saying that it was too costly and impractical for us. Nor have I been offended by the many people who have told me that anything I wanted to do was unrealistic, or when they told me I should just think things through a bit more. Admittedly, I have a tendancy towards hasty, emotional decisions. I often just feel my way through life, using my gut as a sort of "divining stick," and ignoring my other senses all together - especially my common one. So I would certainly understand why the people who love me the most would be concerned about my ability to make healthy decisions.

BUT (you knew it was coming), this is the only way I feel free. A counselor that I saw in college for a bit told me, "Melanie, you have a thing for brick walls. When you see one, you just don't believe it's there, so you bang your head up against it repeatedly until you have proven to yourself that it hurts. You won't let anyone tell you that it will hurt, you have to find out for yourself." Exactly. And I have the bruises to prove it. But I would never, ever trade those bruises for the simple answer from someone else that the brick wall will hurt. That's what true living is really about - testing out all of those brick walls!

Now that I am in my mid-to-late twenties, I'm not so much in a brick-wall-banging place anymore. That initial impulse to run headfirst into what others told me to avoid simply for the pleasure of disobeying has faded. I no longer gain pleasure from mindless rebellion (you can exhale now, Mom). But I still won't accept well-meaning advice, especially when it contains words like "reality" and "practical." I have gotten to the place where I understand that people say these things because they love you, and so I appreciate that love - really I do. But I know that in the end, I have to be the one to make the final decision. I can't do things just because they make life easier for others, or because they are the common, accepted thing to do. I see that more than ever now. I will never simply tolerate a job or a lifestyle just to pay the bills.

So that mountaintop? I'm still on it. And I'm not coming down. I will not with fox. I will not in a box. I will not in a house. I will not with a mouse. I will not eat them, Sam-I-Am, I will not eat green eggs and ham.

work

All summer, I have been pretending that I don't have a job, all the while telling people that I am a middle school teacher at a progressive Quaker school and I love it. I do love it, but when I saw any work-related emails in my inbox while abroad, I would cover my eyes and archive them for later reading, trying to not even accidentally read the subject line, lest I become interested in what it said. All those emails are still archived, and none of them have been read. My friend in the front office at school has been sending me friendly reminders that I need to write a back-to-school letter to my kids' families telling them what they'll need for school, saying what a great year it's going to be and blah, blah blah. It's due today. I haven't done it. I don't know if I can. I am starting to seriously doubt my ability to return to work.

Don't get me wrong, I do love my job. Teaching is very fulfilling. I missed my students this summer, and I am excited to be around crazy middle-schoolers every day again. I work with some really awesome people, some of whom are my closest friends. We just got a new head of school that I helped to hire, and am looking forward to working for. So why does the thought of walking into that school building make me go instantly naseous? I can't think about getting up in the morning again, and "reporting" somewhere by a certain time like I am owned by them or on some sort of computer-regulated schedule. I don't think I'll mind when I'm actually in my classroom with my fabulous kids, but it's the thought of preparing for that that I can't handle. That is the worst part about teaching. Teachers can never just get up and go to work. They have to prepare to go to work on their own, non-work time. I can never just walk into my classroom in the morning and say, "Ok, it's going to be a great day, what should we learn about?" Each day takes so much preparation, forethought, and research. What if I don't feel like doing that? What if I don't like being on a schedule anymore? What if I think there are more important things in life than having my bookshelves alphabetized and my school board materials neatly hole-punched and in a binder? I don't think teaching is conducive to living in the moment. It forces you to constantly live at least a week in advance. How can I be mindful about the moment I'm teaching if I'm supposed to have next Monday's lesson ready to go already? What if next Monday, I don't think the class would be into that lesson? What if the energy of the room doesn't feel like it meshes with that lesson? What if next Monday is a beautiful day and I feel I need to go spend it in the mountains?

I can't go back to work!! What am I going to do??

America the beautiful

Well, I'm no longer Uncle travelling Mel, I'm just Mel. But I don't want to stop blogging. And my fans are begging for more. :)

So what has it been like returning to the U.S.; to my "real" life? Well, I hope you have learned enough about me now to know that I treat every moment of life as real life, no matter where I am or what I'm doing. In the airport on the way back, I waited for 2 hours in the immigration/customs line. People were so cranky. They were scheming about how to get into the shortest line, and then very upset when any line moved faster than theirs. They complained about their sore legs, they worried about making their connecting flights, they said they were hungry, tired, and ready to go home. I felt these things as well. But I kept hearing J.J.'s voice in my head saying, "Mel, can you affirm even this moment? Can you love life while waiting in this airport line?" I said yes in my head. Yes I can. And I will. And I began to look around and enjoy watching people. When my mental space wasn't crowded with worries and complaints, I had room to appreciate all that was going on around me. I thought of how there were so many people waiting in this line who are coming to visit America, maybe for the first time. I thought of how excited they must be, just like I was in the Paris airport 6 weeks ago. I felt excited for them, and silently hoped they would have wonderful time here.

I have been quite overwhelmed by the little things since returning. I know I was only in Western Europe, and it's not like I'm returning from a 2 year stint in the peace corps in Zambia or anything, but it still feels like an adjustment. Driving on the beltway, for example. Wow. It's so much faster than I remember it. And ads - all of a sudden I'm accosted with images of anorexic-looking women again, and magazines full of meaningless celebrity gossip. I had forgotten how obsessed with we are with that plastic image here. Just sitting in the airport, I watched the news for the first time all summer, and heard about a hurricane, an earthquake, a shooting, and some kind of prison case - all within about 4 minutes. Do we really need to know all that's going on? I used to say yes for sure, that it was important to stay informed, but now I don't know. But the biggest thing I've had to adjust to is my phone. I had gotten so used to being unreachable, and I loved it. Since I've returned, my phone has been blowing up with texts and calls. This is wonderful, because it makes me feel very loved that so many people missed me. But I'm not quite sure how to handle this constant communication. Sometimes I just put my phone in the other room and ignore it. I have become used to silence in my head, and now I need it. This morning I had breakfast with a friend, and he had to be somewhere so we had to eat very fast and rush out. It was jarring. I have spent the entire summer leisurely drinking cappuccino (spelling?) and eating chocolate croissants until I felt like getting up to do something. This downing coffee, waffles, bacon, and OJ in 15 minutes made me feel sick, and not just physically.

But I am trying to affirm all of these moments as well. Because anyone can be happy and peaceful in a city like Paris. It's not hard to think life is beautiful when surrounded by gorgeous architechture and art. It's not hard to be un-stressed when the most difficult decision you have to make in a day is which flavor gelatto to get this time. But can I keep that bliss on the beltway? Can I continue to love everyone? Even impersonal American beauracracies? Can you?

home

Here are a few pics from my last night in Europe. I had just one night in paris before flying out today. It was strange and wonderfully fulfilling to be back where I began my trip, but feeling like a whole new person.

Now I am home. I thought about that word a lot on the plane - home. What does that really mean? Each evening for the past 6 weeks, after a long day of sight-seeing, I have said, "let's go home," but I obviously just meant whatever hostel or couch I was sleeping on. When people would ask me where I am from, I said "I'm from philadelphia, but have been living in D.C. for 4 years." But I don't really live in D.C., I live in Maryland. And I didn't really grow up in philly, I grew up in Allentown. But people recognize the big cities more easily. And, truthfully, I will be moving back into D.C. in 2 weeks. And then of course, every time I go to see my parents in pennsylvania, I also say that I am going home. That's complicated.

So if home moves with us, then is it really an external place? An address? A bed to sleep in or a kitchen to cook in, perhaps? Maybe home is something that exists within us. I think home is a place where you can be yourself. Where, as they say in Cheers, "everybody knows your name." It has something to do with belonging. But then, I don't always feel like I belong in America, especially after seeing the rest of the world's image of Americans. (I'm not gonna lie to you folks, it's not pretty.) So does that mean I'm not American? A part of me belongs in America, sure, but I felt like I recognized a part of me in each city I visited on this trip as well. I'd like to think I can be a citizen of the world. So that means that I belong everywhere, and everywhere belongs in me. In that case, I would say "I'm home," but I guess. . . I always have been.

a big, hearty gulp of Europe

I leave for the airport in 1 hour to fly home. I am fighting to stay mindful in this moment. To be present. Not to slide back to the past and cry about not wanting to leave all of this magic. Not to spring into the future and begin making lists of things I need to do when I get home or get excited about who I will see. But I feel as though I am not really leaving Europe. It is a part of me now. I have taken a big, long, satisfying, 6 week gulp of Europe, and I will be digesting it forever. I have drunk everything in, from my first days wandering the streets of Paris to my last adventure jumping out of a plane over the Swiss Alps. It all tasted good, my friends. It all tasted good.

black man loose in Germany

I'd like to take a minute to try and write about a very difficult subject - race. I've been writing a lot about personal growth and spiritual experiences on mountaintops and finding yourself, and lots of things that 20-something white girls from America write about. But today, I will make an effort to delve into this complex and charged topic, because it has come to the forefront of my life as of late.

In case you haven't noticed, J.J., the guy I've been travelling with for the past week, is black. Now right away, some of you over-educated intellectuals might be thinking, why is she pointing that out? It doesn´t matter. And some of you might be thinking, yeah, I've been wondering what's been up with that black guy in your pictures. And some of you are thinking all sorts of other things that I couldn't possibly guess. I hadn't honestly thought a great deal about the fact that J.J. is black, except that it had quite an effect on his prison story. But tonight, my eyes were opened in a drastic way.

It started this morning in Lucerne, Switzerland. We stopped there on the way to Munich. We had an hour to walk around, and J.J. decided he wanted some tea. We looked all over, and finally found a little cafe. It was a typical Swiss place; very clean and filled with crisp, polished people with tucked in shirts and carefully groomed hair. There was a flea market across the way, so I told J.J. to just run in and get some tea to go, then meet me over at the flea market. He got very uncomfortable, looked down at the ground, and said, "Nah, I don't really want tea anyway." I said, "What are you talking about? You've been going on about wanting tea all morning. Just run in and order some quick." He just stood there, staring at the ground. This was very unlike J.J. He is the gregarious guy with an arresting smile that pulls everyone around him in. He is interminably, unshakably confident. Finally, he said, "I don't want to walk in there and, you know, disturb people's morning with my tats showing and everything." (He was wearing a grey tank top with a scarf, which revealed the 4 philosophy tattoos he has on his arms.) To make a long story short, I argued and argued with him, telling him how ridiculous that was, and that he had as much right to be in there ordering tea as anyone else. We eventually agreed to disagree, as he told me I just wouldn't understand.

This evening in Munich, we got some cheap dinner, then sat out at a sidewalk coffeeshop, drinking delightfully American coffee and talking. Our chairs were next to each other. He had his arm around me as we looked through pictures on our cameras. I was aware of lots of people passing by, but I wasn't looking at them. All of a sudden J.J. said, "Are you seeing this?" I said, "What?" He said, "The way people are looking at us." I said, "You're crazy. Come on, this is the 21st century. A white girl sitting with a black man is hardly something out of the ordinary, even if the guy is 6'5". Would you stop with this black man stuff already?" He said, "Just watch." I started noticing the people's faces as they walked by, and I was floored. Almost every single person stopped their conversation and turned their heads to look at us. The looks spanned across the board from quick, furtive glances to lingering stares, with several dropped mouths and eye rolls thrown in just for fun. Wow. I couldn't believe it. Could I really have been this naive? Some people even looked directly into our eyes and gave purposefully disgusted "hmphs." My own mouth dropped. J.J. said, "Now do you believe me about the cafe this morning in Lucerne?"

What the heck?? This throws off my entire concept of the world. This is not how things are supposed to be. This is not how I thought they were. I mean, at least not in the "civilised" western world. What is it? J.J. gave all kinds of explanations. People think I'm taking one of the "good" black men? They are just surprised to see a tall black man in the middle of Munich? Admittetly, it is an unusual sight. Are they just curious? Judgemental? Doesn't make sense at all. What do you think? What is one to do with a black man on the loose in Germany? Does it make you mad that I'm even daring to write about this?

I guess I operated under the idea that black and white cultures weren't really different. I wanted to be an open-minded, post-modern thinking girl without bias or stereotype. J.J. has shown me to be wrong. There are certainly differences. Whether they're due to nature or nurture, I don't know. And I'm also not sure whether these differences are good or bad, or whether those words are even helpful.

J.J. and I started having fun with the whole looks-from-passersby thing, commenting on what we thought people might be thinking. But I felt badly, because in the end, I could walk away and continue to blend in to the crowd, and J.J. would walk away and continue to be a 6'5" black man who has to think about whether he feels comfortable getting tea at certain cafes in Europe. Not that he wants to walk away from that, but what must it feel like not to have the option to blend in?

letting go

I am rapidly nearing the end of my trip. I have 2 days of bus travel through Munich and Paris, then I fly home. I can't help but become rather introspective at this point. People always ask you the questions, "What was the best part of your trip?" and "What was your favorite place?" and "What have you learned?" Well, the best part of my trip is this second, and I would give that answer at any time I was asked. My favorite place is where I am right now, which is always how I've felt. And as for what I've learned, well. . . wow. Here's one thing: I've learned how to let go.

I've always been a bit of a clinger. I have a habit of finding things or people that I love and holding on to them for dear life. I wrap my fingers around them and squeeze, doing everything in my power to make sure they never leave me. I guess it goes back to that control thing again. I think, "My life would be so empty without ________." What an uncertain existence. What an unstable place to pin your contentment. I don't know why I felt like I had to own something for it to bring me happiness.

When travelling like this, it is impossible to cling to things. The second you fall in love with a city, it's time to leave. Everyone you meet will eventually move on to a new place, and there's a very good chance you'll never see them again. You leave your comforts and familiarities at home, and are in a constant state of adaptation. Every time I see a beautiful sight, I want to take a picture to be sure I never forget how it looked. But is that really how it looked? Will that photo show me how the air smelled, or what my friend was saying next to me when I took it? Will it show how I felt or remind me of the sounds at the time? When I really feel connected to place, I immediately think, I have to come back here again. But why? Why don't I just say, I'm so grateful to be here now, instead of planning my next trip here? And finally, the people. I have met so many amazing people who have inspired me, challenged me, and just plain made me laugh. I always get their email addresses and we talk of visiting each other or travelling together in the future. But will those things really happen? Does it matter? Does having a thing again make it more worthwhile than just having it once?

So as I prepare to return to my "real" life at home, I am pondering these questions. I hope I can continue to let my favorite place be the place where my feet are planted this second. And no matter how many wonderful people I meet, this trip has shown me that my favorite person is still me.