China's return meant pouring a huge bowl of cereal with ice cold milk. And spoons. I'd had my fill of chopsticks and rice filled breakfasts the past few months. It's been almost 2 years since I had seen sister S., which meant a lot of catching up to do. It was lovely to see her again.
The recounting of a trip is also something to look forward to once you book your flight home. It's always bittersweet leaving somewhere, no matter how much you miss Mini Wheats and cold milk. But you get to relive and catalogue your adventures once you are home. Meeting with friends for lunch, or finally being able to FaceTime without the WiFi cutting out gives you the chance to tell those stories independent of their circumstances; the hilarious hotel situation in Hangzhou- the one with the missing wall?- is devoid of the feeling of frustration and freezing cold rain. Instead, it's a humorous story that your friends really can't believe. What do you mean all five of you shared a bed?
Which is good...and bad. You love visiting with the people who were there with you or who have been there because they get it. They don't need the backstory that really only provides a fraction of what it was really like. And not that you tell these stories to replace someone else's own experience- your version of canal rides in Suzhou can't ever replace the actual chance to do that for yourself- but it's frustrating to not convey in exact detail what it was like. You can talk all day long about the people you met and the kids you taught and show pictures, but it doesn't do it justice. But you don't really travel to create that experience for someone else, you do it for you. You get to see the world and learn about you in ways nothing else can replace. You push yourself to experience circumstances you would have declined at home but you whole heartedly agree because you love who you are when you travel.You love that compulsion for experience, that hunger to understand, and the chance to come home and believe that your escapades in India, or your contemplative prayers in Israel happened to someone else. Flipping through photos reminds you that it was really you who did all those things... how could you have forgotten? It feels like those adventures belong to someone else.
I love how you come home and fall into familiar patterns, but with a slight twist. A smile when you pull out the porcelain bowls you bought in Turkey are filled with your neighborhood's 'version' of gelato that reminds you of a time in Italy, which is similar to what happened to you while in Jordan, which is also like that one time in China. The association game goes on and on, and hopefully won't end. And while I'm still reminiscing about my last adventure, and I'm happy to be home, and I'm grateful to be speaking English again...but there's something to be said about planning my next adventure, wherever it might be.
