If you talked to me a year ago, you would not be able to contact me. My crappy cellular plan did not allow me to use my phone at all while in Europe. Free wi-fi was like finding water in the middle of a sandy desert: I was just constantly thirsty and pathetically hopeful. Being a person who abuses Instagram and emojis, the three months I spent in Europe were an intervention to say the least. Glossing over my clear problem with 21st century technology of frivolous lattes and minimalistic interfaces, there was another issue that was so overarching I still remember it all too well.
Last June, I graduated high school, packed two incredibly large suitcases, dragged said overpacked suitcases through two airports, two taxis and a few cobblestone streets before I found myself in London. New York will always have my heart, soul and body, but if I had to have an affair, I would definitely be all over London. Suits and ties drinking on the streets, and the London Eye keeping a lookout over the small, yet lively city.
After a week in London, I was off to Paris. Of course, my two suitcases came with me. Hotel room to hotel room, there was no Instagramming on my horizon nor breathing in the polluted air of New Jersey. I got lost in the Louvre and ate on top of the Eiffel Tower. A horse and carriage pulled me through the historic streets of Paris while I was clad in nude heels and a lace dress. It was a dream, but internally, it might as well have been a nightmare.
My travels did not stop in Paris nor did my extreme withdrawals from social media or even the vile taste of homesickness in the back of my throat. With every minute I spent on a train, zooming even more south into Italy, I just wanted to be back to what I knew. Homesickness reminds me of Peter Pan and his shadow. Just let that imagery sink in.
I have never really been outside the United States before so the art, the literature and the overall depth of the culture I experienced during those three months was nothing compared anything I have experience before. I should have been ecstatic, maybe even jealous of myself for getting the opportunity to lose myself in beautiful places people can only dream of calling temporary homes.
Yet all I could think about while standing in front of The David was my dogs. My dogs are way out of David's league (Sorry not sorry, Michelangelo), but The David is a structure that people would love to feast their eyes on. Only my mind wandered to dog drool. Sitting on a river cruise, casually floating down the Thames River while sipping on incredible white wine, I thought about the graduation BBQ I was missing. Tasting the most wonderful food in Florence, I yearned for the exquisite taste of the local burrito chain, Surf Taco. Sun bathing on a private boat in the Mediterranean Sea (slightly tipsy, but you didn't hear it from me), off the coast of Capri, my skin ached for the humidity that is the Jersey shore with 110% chance of a bad sunburn.
A year later, I am living a mundane life, filled with wanderlust that has nowhere to be spent except maybe in the 23rd Street N R subway station. I guess you never know what you have until you don't have it anymore.
A year ago, I was probably sitting in a cafe drinking a cup of black, delicious coffee being pathetically somber, thinking about Netflix and my cat, Pumpkin. Now, I am sitting in a poorly air conditioned office with an end of day time at 6pm and a very large to-do list trying to reignite those Parisian feels. If only I was Dorothy and my nude heels were red and when clicked, I could be back in that very moment. However, I am not Dorothy and I don't own red heels. Tough luck.
