as a child i believed that your home defines who you are. like a fixed physical space roots your identity.
now i wonder, if you move from one place to the other so quickly, will you remain intact? or will pieces of you fall off, leaving you unraveled?
i ask this because in the last 3 weeks i moved around 6 cities in 4 countries in rapid succession. for work, not for fun. and it has left me – well, exhausted.
not that i am blind to the perks of work that allows (or shall i say, requires?) you to travel. after posting travel pictures, my FB friends send me messages lush with admiration, even envy. and yet after all the high from the ‘likes’, the comments and the messages fade, i am back home and wishing i wasn’t too tired i can’t even make love decently.
truth be told, i am a horrible traveler. not just because my mild vertigo makes my head feel like its exploding in every take-off and landing. mainly because shortly after i arrive in every new city, after the relief that comes from passing through (and not being detained) in passport control, i take the quickest way to my hotel (or wherever i am supposed to stay) and try to recreate a semblance of home-ness. that ranges from unpacking my toiletries and arranging them on the sink or looking for the nearest mcdonald’s for affordable comfort food.
shameful, huh? the consternation did not hit until i stared at my mcdonald’s meal spelling out its name in some sexy language i don’t understand.
but despite my apparent lack of travel élan, there were magical moments. passing minutes stolen from the cracks of grueling work hours – like meeting a german girl on a train to berlin and chatting away for hours, or being serenaded to sleep by a long-haired british guitarist in my own room because we got stuck there together by mere chance, or stumbling into a student rally in istanbul and ogling the luscious riot police.
it is in this magical moments that i realize i can be swept away and forget who i am. that’s probably the reason for marking my territory of things familiar in a strange place. it’s like leaving the home lights on so you can remember where to go back to.
torn between the lure of the unknown and the comfort of the familiar i prayed for a sign and it came to me as a graffiti on the elevator of my last hotel:
now, i may not exactly be able to travel with my pussy, but i can sure stop being a pussy and just enjoy taking a journey and the opportunity to come back home.