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22 August, 2011:

'Nostalgic for Paris. For it all.

"yes, and it was amazing!"

Not sleeping, wanting to be moving. Lost inside my own head for 14 months. Getting sick of things, growing fond of them. Expiration on the brain. Expiration is relevant while backpacking, if you're stuck it's your own fault, because lives are being broken/molded/molten around you.

What have I learned? We project our ideals onto others. By knowing myself, I know the sad bits in other people. the flow (positive, negative, hurricane, toxic) is more carnal, more visceral, like a taste in my mouth. A bit of saliva rubbing on the tongue the wrong way. That's what everyone is, a nervous hand through the hair, a lapse into self-deprecation (laps, like a dog at a bowl, or laps, a circular racetrack.)'

black and white

“Adventure is a path. Real adventure – self-determined, self-motivated, often risky – forces you to have firsthand encounters with the world. The world the way it is, not the way you imagine it. Your body will collide with the earth and you will bear witness. In this way you will be compelled to grapple with the limitless kindness and bottomless cruelty of humankind – and perhaps realize that you yourself are capable of both. This will change you. Nothing will ever again be black-and-white.” – Mark Jenkins

I've been home for almost a month!

A month!

After fourteen months of travel? After all those transitions? How many beds did I sleep in? How many shoulders did I sleep on? How many times did I reiterate my story, and how many times did I lie?

Kindness/cruelty, my traveling bread and butter. My sustenance and my virtue.

Excerpts from Journal,

24 July 2011:

'At the beach

A man settles his limbs on a beach chair. He leans it all the way flat. Half-full diet Coke on the expectant plastic table, sun-glasses still on, sucking with fervor or exhaustion at his cigarette. Lies still for a few beats, smoking skywards. Sand sand sand, in every little crevice! I wore my giant floppy hat, sunglasses (bought in Jerusalem because I lost my Ray Bans) and clicked my iPod into position, fully armed against the outside world.'

'Ah, the London accent. Less glamorous, still quite charming. I bought a wool jumper because it's 17 in London. Red-eyed and sleepy at the airport. I played at the beach in Tel Aviv, laughing throatily when the waves knocked me down, racing the surge, leaping over frothy waves, tossing myself into the swell, daring, daring them to catch me unawares. Everyone watched jealously while I piled my sopping curls on top of my head and tugged my loose-rimmed bikini bottoms against the flirty tug of gravity.

We went to a gay bar, a village, a seedy club, the port, a night picnic, a trendy local bar, Harry Potter in 3-D, the best houmous in Tel Aviv, the jellyfish-riddled sea in the North, her uncle's for dinner, a sushi birthday party, a political rally.'