Coming home is always a strange feeling. 7 months abroad is not a short span of time. By now, I know each & every single piece of item in my luggage. One final ride through the city to the airport & that’s it. And then the return flight. I have a tendency to look through my phone on the plane & rewatch videos of the trip to, for the slightest bit, feel like I’m reliving in that moment again. That 20 second clip of the mate chatting up the ladyboy in Bangkok, with an hour to sunrise, whilst absolutely pissed out on his ninth beer that night. Or the picture perfect morning in the Himalayas staring right out into the landscape with nothing more than a coffee & a spliff for breakfast. To a large extent, it makes me more grateful than gutted looking back at it. That I have managed to experience many of such things that people back home, only write about in essays or talk & hope for in abstract. There’s also a certain level of appreciation that comes along with it. That home offers much which the road doesn’t. Perhaps, it’s the familiarity. Or the routine. Makes me feel that I can let my guard down at last. But when you’ve been around places & experienced stuff, it doesn’t take long for you to ask yourself: Which of these is my ‘real’ life? And if the road is the answer, how do I go back? How can I simply return to my ‘old’ life after I’ve seen all this? The expectations of sashimi gets distorted in fabulous ways after going to Japan. Hiking will never evoke the same emotions after you’ve done Nepal. Going to your local beach will always be second tier after you’ve been to Thailand. And you fear that one day, you’ll look at old friends & loved ones & think, “I was having garlic soup & yak stew for dinner with a sherpa who’s been up Mt. Everest 22 times. How should I feign an appropriate level of interest in everyday things?”
One thing I have picked up these last few months would be that no matter how well you plan and research, things will go wrong. The place you end up might not be the same way you imagined or read about in the destination book. The local guide preaching about the places he will take you to might disappoint you. The restaurant you so badly looked forward to might have moved, changed owners or closed down. Be prepared for an alternative option. Even if there is no alternative option. Travel is a wonderful privilege that not everyone has the opportunity to be given. Life is also short. We all know this. If at any point, you start dreading that long trip to the waterfalls, abort it and look to see if you can find other activities along the way back. Try something that you never planned to. The best moments, that perfect lunch or that unforgettable hike, more often than not, happens when you take that leap of faith to let it happen. Even if the place seems as sketchy as sketchy gets. Or the workers at a street stall are unfriendly and even to some extent, rude. But look left and right and there are countless locals sitting on shaky tables and plastic chairs packed in it. You have found the spot. Grab a chair and order the only dish on the menu. You’re in for the treat of a lifetime.
It has been said that we find out way more about ourselves when we travel than about the places we have been to. And in some way, I see the truth it in over time. Every place I visit, I tend to observe some sort of similarity in how people behave or react to different situations. From the farmer in the rice fields wondering when the next rain will come after months of dry spell. To the fresh grad on the metro concerned about how his bosses are like on his first day at work. Ultimately, after all is said and done, when I return home, I try and look inwards. To see and find some kind of meaning and logic behind all my time abroad. Looking at my 85 years old grandmother while she gets wheeled out for visitation at the nursing home. The expressions on her face changing by the second. Joy to see her grandson returning to visit her. Concern if I have been eating well. Wonder when the next time I would be back after this visitation. Fear if this might be the last time she sees me. Perhaps, even after all this travelling, I have come to realise that the difference and distance between places and people are no less, and no more, distinct than the distance between human hearts.