I had about 4 hours to kill on a layover in Warsaw, going from Poland to Chicago, which I spent writing in my journal and dreading the thought of leaving Europe (typical). I again started to panic at the thought of leaving, because at
that point I had no plans to return to international ground as of yet. Every time I’ve been there, in
the back of my mind I weave a plan for my return, of where I will go and how I
will go there. I knew after studying
abroad in high school that I would study abroad in college. I knew after
studying abroad in college that I would return to backpack, whether solo or
not. This time around, I have no plans for my brilliant return, though a small
part of me is holding out hope that my next trip to Europe will be to Ireland,
which I am saving for my family. In these last few moments on
European soil that I spent locked up in the Warsaw airport, in said panic, I
started buying European knick-knacks, snacks and booze in effort to bring home
something besides ideas and fun and memories of my trip. I ate or drank most of
it before I got home.
The flight TO Europe is the greatest; the flight HOME
is the worst. The flight going there is usually at night, with starry skies and
the expectation that an adventure is starting looming over you, but the flight
home is awful. It’s constantly sunny out, but the airline tries to put everyone
to bed by serving an awkward dinner at lunchtime and forcing everyone to close
their blinds and putting in a woozy romantic film for all to watch and nap to.
Then they pretend to wake everyone up to serve breakfast in the middle of the
day, after virtually nobody has slept, and try to make you forget that you’re
basically time traveling at this point and won’t hope to recover from it for a
full week after you’re home. Luckily I had a window seat and the passenger seat
was vacant during my 10-hr flight home, which felt like 24 hours.
I finally
landed in Chicago, and it took forever to get off the plane, as most of the
passengers were Polish and couldn't read English. I bustled to the front of the pack, winding old Polish people
through O’Hare airport and eventually to the customs lines, where I hesitantly
turned on my Blackberry to allow for the texts and emails to start flooding in.
I stood at customs, the last real place where I could say I was on an
international adventure, and hated the thought of being done with another
foreign excursion. I went through the line anyway and gave the customs official a vehement frown when he welcomed me home. Bad timing, sir.
As soon as I landed in Omaha, I walked up towards the terminal where family and
friends wait to pick up their arrivals. Even from far away, at the end of the hall
amongst all the other people waiting anxiously for their own family or friends,
I could still easily pick out the anxious face of my mom. I think it’s just one
of 'those things'; the path to home or comfort, for me, is always lit, at the end, by the image of my mother. When I saw her in that moment, I was able to finally let go of the
“solo female traveler” iron-clad shield I had been wearing since she dropped me
off 12 days earlier. No longer did I have to fend for myself, be cognizant of my surroundings
enough to be able to rogue off an attacker, or nurse myself back to health.
With mothers, all things are OK. With my mother, I could finally let the big
scary world go. Trip officially over, and all is right with the world again.
Most notably after this was that when I got
into my parents car to bum a ride home, I managed to catch my jeans on my parents car door and my pant leg ripped fully open from mid-thigh downward. Somehow I
managed to survive on only two pairs of pants for 12 days, and the minute I am
back on American soil, I completely ruin a pair? Touché to you, universe.
I stayed up for hours that night after I got home,
laying around my empty apartment, not unpacking, not doing laundry, not re-acclimating
myself to US television like I had planned. I spent it writing, looking through
my 800+ photos on my camera, and going through all the maps, receipts and knick-knacks
I had picked up along the way. I was exhausted, but going to sleep and waking
up the next day meant that I officially had to move on with my life. And that,
to me at the time, meant a lot of things. It meant that I have a long life
ahead of me spending hours and hours reflecting in how thankful I am for the
life I lead, the person I am, and the people in my life. After backpacking
Europe alone, including standing in the pit of human despair known as
Auschwitz, you don’t continue to lead a life that isn’t the happiest, most
productive life you can muster.
Some squeaky Disney
character once sang that “a dream is a wish your heart makes.” When sung in the
background of Cinderella, it sounds fine and dandy, but this trip made this feeling palpable to me for the first time. My heart could have
physically burst the entire 12 days I roamed Europe in November 2011. There was
a wonderfully suffocating wholeness in my chest. It suddenly made sense to me that my life is
more than just a series of consequences that are brought down on me, but rather
that my life is what I will make of it. I know now more than ever that I
command my life and that I will settle for nothing but happiness, which
ultimately stems from gratitude.
Since
the last time I had graced the continent I so warmly speak of (when I went to
Europe in college), I've tripped and fallen face first into the "real
world." Ive come to find out that the majority of my 5-year plan consists
of going-with-the-flow, Santa isn't real, and you're never too old to chase a
shot of vodka with a pickle spear (thanks for that one, MOM). It's been both
the best of times and the worst of times. Life has moved forward through
everything it has regurgitated at my world, though sometimes it felt hard to
believe that it would. Life is a
tremendous gift, both the good and the bad. Sink into the moments
that leave you breathless.
Happiest
of wander lusting until next time,
Margaret
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