Everywhere on the Internet, I have small chats and big chats with friends I have missed, the heavy weights in my heart, and I tie them to my balloons, kites to carry me forward. The lake in Neuchatel is an excellent crystal ball, the sun and stars through my bedroom window an excellent television, and the black cat tiptoeing along a high balcony an oracle, oblivious as I watch it on my own tip toes from the kitchen window. My heart has begun the process of missing the present.
If ever I write anything more substantial than my jumble of blog posts and tweets, I am sure I will have to dedicate it to Cass, because whatever she does when we communicate seems to unlock whatever it is blocking my hand from the keyboard (the title of this post belongs to her, a parenthetical statement made in our Skype chat yesterday).
I think it’s hard to be in your twenties and go into Europe to travel without at least a small toiletry bag of expectations. There’s a lot of myths fed to people my age and maybe as a young woman who grew up almost entirely in a small country that most people still don’t know about (it feels like), I bought into this Europe myth more than most.
Did I come here thinking it was going to change who I am, that travelling in Europe was going to give me great, juicy anecdotes and adventures - neat and whole narratives I could peg to my self worth, that I could repeat to friends and strangers who will then become my friends because hey, I went to Europe and had all that fun! Yeah, I did. I tried to pretend I didn’t for a while, but I did, I did. I was hoping for a boy, I was hoping for skinny dipping, I was hoping for unbridled joy so big it blew out any of my inherent moroseness and introspectiveness. Even if just for a few significant moments.
This is a lot of “whining” from someone who’s lucky enough to have the resources to travel here and stay here for three months, pretty much no strings attached, with the support of a sister with a pretty good job and stable home life within which she has carved me a space. And after all this is over, I go home to my father’s house, another safety net. I know! Oh my goodness, I know! I’m just in my twenties and I have emotions coming out my ears, forgive me.
So far, there’s no boy, I haven’t yet swam in a body of water (naked OR clothed) and my joys are smaller, deeper and inexplicably hard to explain. They’re not gems I can pour out of a bag so everyone else can see them sparkle, they’re just mine. It’s easier for me to write when I’ve had a few grey days, when I’ve had a streak of duvet caves and dark moods so the stuff that comes out often makes it seem like that’s my whole life, that’s my whole existence in this faraway, wonderful place where I can see the Alps from my window.
So what has “Europe” been for me? I shouldn’t start this list now when I’m still on this trip, but so far I know it is gratitude, excitement, fear, boredom, guilt, awe, humility, melancholy and a constant itch. It makes me speechless, it triggers my camera finger, and it makes me repeat myself. It makes me keep trying to articulate.