Travel Book
Somewhere Over the Atlantic
The end of our trip came full circle, back to London. After three and a half months of travelling, my impression of London was much less romantic, and much more human. People were just living life—McDonald’s, taxi fumes, and mall walking. Sure, I still loved watching the way the English commuted and related, but this time I was no longer intimidated by their accents.
Summer and I stayed a few days in the residential area of Notting Hill, where daily life is mimicked the world over. We stopped budgeting, so that we could afford to eat in London. If things were not so expensive, I might have tried to stay longer. Maybe I’d become an illegal immigrant, just like the airport customs agent presumed.
After such a momentous voyage, the only way we could face leaving was in a rush—and that’s exactly what happened. We woke up with just enough time to catch a ride to the airport for our 6:30 am flight. After thirty minutes, our bus never showed. Not wanting to repeat the incident from the Madrid train station, I paced around to try and find another way to the airport. We hailed a cab with a few other people--hoping that the cabby would have a lead foot. Indeed he was fast, but not fast enough. At 6:25 I rushed to the airline attendant and breathlessly spat out our story.
Without sympathy the attendant gave me a cool puzzled look, "Of course you have time”
"What?" I wondered.
"Of course you have time, because it is only 5:25." I sheepishly looked at my watch.
It turned out that I forgot to reset my alarm clock to English time, and we actually got up an hour early. It was the best mistake I had ever made. Had we missed our plane, the only option we had was to marry John and Andrew for green cards and raise offspring with teeth so crooked that they had to ask for directions.
“I wonder what John and Andrew from England are doing right now.” I said.
“Yeah, they were fun.” Summer responded.
“And Sadie and Betsy, and Ben and Bret, and Patrick and Chelsea, and Adam, and Christian, and Matt and Steve, and Greg and Nick, and Pablo and Marcos, and Anita and Magda, and Elka, and Phillipo and Paulo, and Sophia and Claudia, and Aaron.” I added, “and Marcus.”
These people enriched my life in such a way that I would never forget them. We were about to board the plane and I wasn’t yet prepared to leave all of these amazing folks behind me.
They say that you can never return to camp. Cabins might be there for fifty years, but the adventure and laughter leaves with the campers. Roasted marshmallows and fireside chats will only be recreated in memories. My mind would forever house thoughts and still-frames of my treasured companions. When I hear “Return of the Mack” I’ll always think of John and Andrew. When I ride a bike, I’ll always think of Adam. When I wash my hair, I’ll always think of Chelsea. When I go to Starbucks, I’ll always think of Marcus.
Twenty-three is an odd age. It is a time when unseasoned human beings are transitioning into careers, relationships, and adulthood with substantial pressure to have the world figured out. This tension between uncertainty and settlement is what I call a quarter-life crisis. The quarter-life crisis can be beaten. When you take the time to get to know yourself, the pressures around you no longer dictate your position in the world, but rather, personal discernment. Summer and I set out to see the world, and what we saw was ourselves.
Summer left Portland knowing that Sam was not her soul mate. Our trip, she believed, would help heal her broken heart. In the process she found her soul. She found the little imperfections that made her unique. She found the pieces of life that made her smile. She found what kind of guys she didn’t want, and more importantly, she found what kind of girl she wanted to be.
I left Portland yearning to escape my life. Europe showed me that life began inside of myself. What made me happiest on the trip were all of the characters that passed through my travels. They had something special to offer, and I finally took the time to notice them. The same would be true about people in my own back yard. People are interesting, and I would be happier if I took the risk, and let them into my life.
We flew over the Atlantic in dismayed joy.
“Wow,” Summer said, “I can’t believe we’re going home.”
Home. I was halted by the bittersweet dichotomy of leaving Europe and re-entering the United States. My feet had glided across Roman ruins and swanky Euro dance clubs and yet I still felt a profound sense of excitement to watch my nieces at their small town ballet recital. Back in January, Europe was something I had only seen in the movies. Now, I cannot imagine my life without the Eiffel tower, London Bridge, Dublin, Cologne, Aushwitz, Chamonix, and a million experiences that grace my memory. They are more than my pictures--they are a part of me.
Slowly nodding, I turned to Summer and stated in all truth, “That was the best thing I have ever done.”
And it was.
