Homeward bound, I wish I was

I'm in London with a tube pass in my hand and a handful of pounds in my pocket but I don't really feel like doing anything. I think I'm all toured out. I tried sight-seeing yesterday but all I ended up doing was wandering around the Tate Modern for a few hours then going back to my hostel to eat shitty spaghetti and drink warm water.

I'm tired. I sleep in late but it doesn't feel like enough. When I wake up, I spend ten minutes staring at my bag as a slideshow of Philipp memories play in my mind: walking by the river, cheering at football games, waking up to warm smiles and sleepy hugs.

Junior's been emailing me, wondering if I've bought my plane ticket to Brazil. I really want to visit him this winter, but part of me wonders if it's a very good idea. What if I've got a boyfriend in January or a job that won't give me time off? What if I move somewhere and I'm happy and don't feel like going to Brazil for ten days? I suppose if this Europe trip has taught me anything, it's that I can make decisions like this and just weave them into my life, solidifying a small part of my future.

When I left Minnesota I was worried about feeling lonely as I traveled from country to country. And there were definitely a few moments when I'd wished someone was around, but by and large, I've been surrounded by people the entire three months. Privacy doesn't exist in hostels. Sometimes you wake up in the morning and want to stretch and groan and fart but there's a couple sharing a bed below you and some dude just walked in the room with nothing but a towel around his waist. I'm finally starting to value what everyone else has already known: being alone can be really nice. I want to take a shower on Saturday morning and sit half naked on my bed, surfing the Internet until I dry off and then I want to do laundry as I fix myself a lunch and shuffle through the mail, looking for a magazine to read. After that I'll stand in front of my closet for five minutes and frown at all of my clothes, before putting on a wrinkled t-shirt and the smoky jeans I wore last night. I'll grab my bike and ride for an hour then come home and finish my laundry before heading to a coffeeshop to get some writing done. When evening hits and the Minnesota skies turn purple and deep magenta, I'll find my way home and eat a quick dinner then watch whatever Netflix left in the mail.

None of this is possible over here. There are moments, usually when I'm staring out the window of a train listening to Sigur Ros on my iPod, when everything feels kind of peaceful and I don't mind that I haven't got a home and the bag at my feet contains all of my worldly possessions. I'm glad I've be able to experience that. But nothing beats going home to the same place each night and sleeping in a familiar bed with your stuff all around, unpacked and splayed out on the floor. Nothing beats phone calls from your friends and dinner with your family and holding your grandma's hand as she does the Charleston with her wobbly, 92-year-old legs.

I miss you guys and I know I can't stay here forever. Maybe I'd be singing a different tune if I had more Junior or Philipp time to look forward to, but right now my love affairs have run dry and reality is tugging on my shirtsleeves like an annoying, impatient toddler. Fine I'll come home and fine I'll get a job but dammit you can't have my soul. I'm leaving it here in Europe, buried under the sand in Barcelona, in the ghastly catacombs of Paris, at the bottom of an empty beer cup in Frankfurt, under the seat on a train in Southern Italy. I'll see you again in a bar back home and maybe I'll let you buy me some tator tots. We'll have a lot of things to talk about. I'm excited to hear your stories.