I’ve spent most of the night sitting on my bed, staring at the computer screen, doing anything other than what I am officially supposed to do.
Of course, this isn’t any different from my activities on most nights. Except this time, the thing I’m supposed to be doing is packing, and that makes this night way different than any other night.
I’m packing to go home, back to Australia, and with all the feelings and thoughts and emotions swirling around it’s a wonder I can get anything done.
I left home eight months ago, on what I self-coined the “Fabulous Tour of the Universe, TM.” The plans were pretty flexible, but there was one in place. My friend Ora and I planned to spend a week in Thailand, to get a breather from work and stress and in the holiday mode, sunning ourselves and partying it up in Koh Samui. From there, it was on to Israel for two weeks, taking in the Jewish festival of Shavout with family and friends, adventuring the North of the country, and ending it all with my school friend’s beachside wedding. Come early June, the European adventure was to begin, where my tennis obsession would have us starting in Paris for the French Open final, heading to Lyon to visit a friend where I would also finish sitting my university exams, and starting the Spanish adventure. We earmarked a six week period for Italy and Spain, with a spare two weeks in the middle that we had honestly no idea what to do with. Greece was off the cards, so it could’ve been anything, from South of France to extra time in the country of our choice. Come late July, we planned to visit Ora’s best friend in Zurich, picking up my mammoth suitcase I’d dropped there at the start of Europe, and head to New York for the next stage.
The New York Plan was the first segment where I knew from the start our plans differed. Ora was heading to the Big Apple for the first time in her life, and wanted to tourist it up while experiencing all that is mammoth – and awesome – about the city. A daughter of ex-New Yorkers, I was more pressured by the notion of setting foot on American soil, where countless grandparents/aunts/uncles/cousins and friends would immediately signal to me that the adventure was over. I also had vague plans to settle in the city following the trip, and wasn’t quite sure how the differentiation between ‘backpacking’ and ‘living’ in NY was going to pan out.
Turns out it didn’t turn out quite that way. After an extended four weeks in Spain and ten days in Italy, Ora bought her train ticket to Zurich and we said goodbye in our tiny shabby Venice hotel. I spent the next two days in Venice alone before taking the overnight train to Rome to meet a friend from Los Angeles, who joined me for another two weeks in Europe. While Ora made her way to New York and started her American adventure, I backtracked from Rome down to Corfu in Greece, back up to Venice, and for a crazy week in Ibiza. Left alone once again in Barcelona, I embarked on the final part of the adventure: Switzerland, alone. Two weeks of solo travel taught me more about myself than the first two months with a partner, and before I knew it was late August, I had my last night drinking in a Swiss hostel, and boarded a plane to New York.
That could’ve been the end of the trip, and I suppose in my mind it was then. But it wasn’t, because tonight, I realise that the adventure only continued. The first half of September was a blur of adrenalin was I indulged my tennis obsession, volunteering at the US Open and meeting people of the awesomeness persuasion left, right and centre. The Jewish Holidays over the month of September were another blur of family and religious obligations, but it wasn’t until October, when I found myself in an uninspiring temp job, that real life hit and the struggles began.
Travel adventures aren’t just about the awesome: they’re about the challenges and the strength it brings out in you. I can wax lyrical about the adventures I had in Europe, and take up an entire blog with my tales of awesomeness. And trust me, I think they’re pretty damn great. But it wasn’t until October, when I found myself attempting to furnish an empty apartment in Brooklyn with no friends, no money and a very precarious temporary job situation, that the real mountain was climbed. Finding myself jobless a few weeks later, crying desperately under a blanket to my Mum on skype, I knew the only way was up. Those few weeks were the most desperate time – but now I have them to look back on and see how far I’ve come.
It’s December now, and I’m heading home. But this time, the adventure isn’t over. I have friends in New York, new friendships that are blossoming and hoping to grow into something bigger. I have a job, one that I enjoy that presents great opportunities for the future. I’m involved in some amazing projects that get me so excited I’m up all night working on them, using my talents properly for the first time in my life. And I walk through the streets and finally feel that I can be myself, in this big bad city.
Everyone talks about moving to New York to make it, but no one says precisely how hard it is. Let me tell you. It’s seriously goddamn difficult. And I’m not even close to being there yet. But this time, I know that when I get back here after this visit home, I won’t be embarking on a Fabulous Tour of the Universe TM. But it’ll be an adventure, and one with a happy ending. I just know it.
