Earlier this year I purchased a (somewhat fiscally irresponsible - more on that later) around-the-world plane ticket to travel to Greece, India, and China for 14 weeks. Unlike other trips when I've (obsessively and excitedly) planned out each day, I felt uncharacteristically unmotivated to research and plan for the summer. (Uncharacteristic for me, yes, but not unsurprising, given that saying goodbye and leaving the the US had suddenly become more difficult than ever before - more on that later).
I sent some emails, joined some Facebook groups for volunteer organizations, and convinced myself that everything would work out just fine.
Two days before my flight to Athens, I was sprawled out on a hotel room bed in Tampa (making a weekend pit stop to attend a wedding, a cocktail dress stuffed in my carry-on between mud-encrusted hiking boots), frantically purchasing international health insurance and messaging a French-Canadian girl I was supposed to meet up with in Athens, who I hoped was (a) not a psycho and (b) more prepared than me - supposedly she already had an AirBnb booked.
Every time I imagined boarding my flight on Sunday, my throat tightened and my heart raced. I had never before taken such a long trip alone. Past solo trips - to Bolivia, Chile, and Ecuador - were much-awaited times for self-reflection and 25 mile dawn-til-dusk hikes. Every long trip I'd taken, though, had always been with friends; the inevitable challenges and daily stresses of last-minute decisions seemed less daunting with them by my side.
I knew I was capable of doing this alone: my constant assertion for most of my life has been, "I'm an independent and strong woman, dammit!" (An assertion proclaimed with equal relish before training for an ultra-marathon on a shaky knee and before taking three shots of tequila on an empty stomach.) The more I was told by friends and family and strangers at REI what an inspirational, selfless, and tough person I was for taking this trip, the more I wanted to crawl into bed with a bowl of ice cream and watch Netflix.
Somehow, the last 16 months of my life since returning from Peru - living and working in Houston, Washington DC, Houston again, and Portland - had unnerved and exhausted me. Rather than fuel further wanderlust, I was finally craving stability: a place to live for more than 4 months, artwork hung with actual nails, an Ikea furniture set that wasn't a hand-me-down, a real mattress filled with springs instead of air, and hobbies. Oh, the hobbies I dreamed of! Hobbies - like cycling and triathlons and gardening and heaps of volunteer work - that are best pursued when I call a house a home for more than one season change, and when disposable income no longer seems like a foreign, adult concept.
Then there was him.
But, I'm an independent and strong woman, dammit! Hobbies and artwork and him, they could all wait. Despite the feeling of emotional exhaustion and the acute realization that I was already burnt out, before I'd even begun traveling, I never considered not getting on that plane:
(1) I'd already bought the tickets. (cheap)
(2) I'd look like a failure. (proud)
(3) I'd regret not going every day for the rest of my life. (mellow-dramatic)
Forty-eight hours of Tampa wedding fun later, I was locked in a bathroom stall at the Montreal Airport on the verge of a panic attack. I had no idea where I'd be sleeping the next night in Chalkida, Greece. I was sobbing over all the goodbyes I'd said, questioning my overzealous travel plans, and cursing myself for not being better prepared. ("I can't even say 'please' or 'thank you' in Greek!" I lamented. I downloaded an offline English-Greek translation app on my phone and felt a tiny bit better.)
I called him using the airport WiFi. "You're an independent and strong woman, dammit!" he said. (But not really. It was something more poetic and uplifting. Besides, if he had used my own line on me, I would have been pissed.) He told me I was inspirational, selfless, and tough, or something like that, which made me want to scream, "I'm not who you all seem to think I am! I regularly eat quesadillas despite debilitating lactose intolerance and I know way too much about Selena Gomez and Justin Bieber's ill-fated romance!" But I didn't actually scream that. We hung up.
I staggered around the Duty Free shops for a few hours with nervous energy bubbling up in the form of fresh tears every five minutes. I felt emotionally hungover; no, I felt actually hungover. I chugged water. My newly-hydrated tear ducts went to work again.
I angrily wondered why no one - not family nor friends nor him - seemed to believe me when I told them I was a selfish, incompetent fool; they just insisted the opposite. I contemplated why no one else could see me the way I see myself: scraping by on mere adequacy and good luck. Eventually, I wondered, finally, with despair if I could ever see myself the way others see me...
Realizing that was far too profound of a thought experiment to undertake, I bought a pastry.
I boarded my flight (upgraded to first class for the first time in my life!) and watched The Danish Girl (at least my tears were no longer just for me) and fell into a fitful sleep.
And, thus, I arrived in Greece with weary bones and an aching heart and not a scrap of the excitement or gratitude I knew I should have.
Then I met Vienna, and she wasn't a psycho and she did have an AirBnb and, for the next 16 days, she and a rambunctious cast of characters became the most important people in my life (but more on that later).
I sent some emails, joined some Facebook groups for volunteer organizations, and convinced myself that everything would work out just fine.
Two days before my flight to Athens, I was sprawled out on a hotel room bed in Tampa (making a weekend pit stop to attend a wedding, a cocktail dress stuffed in my carry-on between mud-encrusted hiking boots), frantically purchasing international health insurance and messaging a French-Canadian girl I was supposed to meet up with in Athens, who I hoped was (a) not a psycho and (b) more prepared than me - supposedly she already had an AirBnb booked.
Every time I imagined boarding my flight on Sunday, my throat tightened and my heart raced. I had never before taken such a long trip alone. Past solo trips - to Bolivia, Chile, and Ecuador - were much-awaited times for self-reflection and 25 mile dawn-til-dusk hikes. Every long trip I'd taken, though, had always been with friends; the inevitable challenges and daily stresses of last-minute decisions seemed less daunting with them by my side.
I knew I was capable of doing this alone: my constant assertion for most of my life has been, "I'm an independent and strong woman, dammit!" (An assertion proclaimed with equal relish before training for an ultra-marathon on a shaky knee and before taking three shots of tequila on an empty stomach.) The more I was told by friends and family and strangers at REI what an inspirational, selfless, and tough person I was for taking this trip, the more I wanted to crawl into bed with a bowl of ice cream and watch Netflix.
Somehow, the last 16 months of my life since returning from Peru - living and working in Houston, Washington DC, Houston again, and Portland - had unnerved and exhausted me. Rather than fuel further wanderlust, I was finally craving stability: a place to live for more than 4 months, artwork hung with actual nails, an Ikea furniture set that wasn't a hand-me-down, a real mattress filled with springs instead of air, and hobbies. Oh, the hobbies I dreamed of! Hobbies - like cycling and triathlons and gardening and heaps of volunteer work - that are best pursued when I call a house a home for more than one season change, and when disposable income no longer seems like a foreign, adult concept.
Then there was him.
But, I'm an independent and strong woman, dammit! Hobbies and artwork and him, they could all wait. Despite the feeling of emotional exhaustion and the acute realization that I was already burnt out, before I'd even begun traveling, I never considered not getting on that plane:
(1) I'd already bought the tickets. (cheap)
(2) I'd look like a failure. (proud)
(3) I'd regret not going every day for the rest of my life. (mellow-dramatic)
Forty-eight hours of Tampa wedding fun later, I was locked in a bathroom stall at the Montreal Airport on the verge of a panic attack. I had no idea where I'd be sleeping the next night in Chalkida, Greece. I was sobbing over all the goodbyes I'd said, questioning my overzealous travel plans, and cursing myself for not being better prepared. ("I can't even say 'please' or 'thank you' in Greek!" I lamented. I downloaded an offline English-Greek translation app on my phone and felt a tiny bit better.)
I called him using the airport WiFi. "You're an independent and strong woman, dammit!" he said. (But not really. It was something more poetic and uplifting. Besides, if he had used my own line on me, I would have been pissed.) He told me I was inspirational, selfless, and tough, or something like that, which made me want to scream, "I'm not who you all seem to think I am! I regularly eat quesadillas despite debilitating lactose intolerance and I know way too much about Selena Gomez and Justin Bieber's ill-fated romance!" But I didn't actually scream that. We hung up.
I staggered around the Duty Free shops for a few hours with nervous energy bubbling up in the form of fresh tears every five minutes. I felt emotionally hungover; no, I felt actually hungover. I chugged water. My newly-hydrated tear ducts went to work again.
I angrily wondered why no one - not family nor friends nor him - seemed to believe me when I told them I was a selfish, incompetent fool; they just insisted the opposite. I contemplated why no one else could see me the way I see myself: scraping by on mere adequacy and good luck. Eventually, I wondered, finally, with despair if I could ever see myself the way others see me...
Realizing that was far too profound of a thought experiment to undertake, I bought a pastry.
I boarded my flight (upgraded to first class for the first time in my life!) and watched The Danish Girl (at least my tears were no longer just for me) and fell into a fitful sleep.
And, thus, I arrived in Greece with weary bones and an aching heart and not a scrap of the excitement or gratitude I knew I should have.
Then I met Vienna, and she wasn't a psycho and she did have an AirBnb and, for the next 16 days, she and a rambunctious cast of characters became the most important people in my life (but more on that later).
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