Friday, August 10, 2012
I tend to be a spartan traveler which does have a romantic, minimal air to it. Just ramblin' me and my bindle (um small backpack really) riding the rails! Nick came here to Lisbon for an academic conference though, which meant he packed the small netbook on which I currently type as well as neckties and binders and other things I find extraneous but in this odd liminal hour I am glad he has this machine. My traveling companion is passed out beside me on stiff linens of a strangers' guest room and I have already started and finished both my vacation books and written every last feeling down on paper with pen. So now it's just me and my travel alarm clock, loudly keeping pace the way real clocks do (I had forgotten) and man am I anxious about the rest of 2012.
It's true I measure out my life in vacations and long weekends, not because I hate my job or all the mundane heartbreaking ways I fill my days, but because the exception proves the rule. I like my job, my indefinite rooomate (ha), my neighborhood, my morning coffee. Which is why it's so nourishing, for small stretches of a life, to play at giving it all up. How sparkling it is out there. How much there is to know. The whole rest of the world doesn't make me feel unmoored, as it might others. It makes me feel secured to something, steadied to go on doing in my unvarnished little life.
So I am happy to go home (I've only been gone a week, would I relax with the grand language???, maybe you're thinking), wash my clothes (I underpacked as ever, so they stink primally) but it is twisting me up because I have allowed myself these past months a bye from anxiety about my many work and life duties approaching this fall. After I "get back" is when I will let those worries bloom into my view. Until then they will sit like dead pixels on a monitor, peppering the view but not obscuring it completely.
They wait just beyond the Atlantic now (they were there all along) and it's this reason I think that I can't for the life of me get to sleep tonight. Or it could be this awful bed. Might do just as well sleeping directly on the cold tile, is all I'm saying.
P.S. Hand-wringing aside, had a smashing time in Portugal, more on that later.