The last month has been a blur. Six weeks actually. Ever since I made this decision. It’s not that time flew by, or that I was crazy busy. In fact, there was a lot of siting around and waiting. But when I try to tell people things that happened in the last six weeks, I find myself lacking details. I can’t remember things. I was trying to tell a friend about a conversation I had, and I couldn’t remember where or when it took place or what was actually said. Not sure what that says about me, but I found it interesting.
I suppose I could have spent all these weeks researching, planning, preparing myself. I didn’t. I specifically made a choice to not plan or research, although that choice was subconscious at first. Conversations with more inquisitive friends have been something like the following:
So where are you going?
Europe. In general.
How long are you staying?
Till I run out of money or find a way to make some, I guess.
Where are you staying in Iceland?
On a farm… It’s somewhere south… I don’t know the town.
Where in Scotland?
No clue yet.
What language do they speak in Iceland?
What is the currency and rate of exchange?
How are you getting to the farm?
Do you know how much it costs?
Do you know which one?
Do you know anything?
At first I didn’t even want to look up pictures or landmarks or things to do. I caved in that, but I’m kind of sad that I did. I’m not traveling to sightsee. I’m not going as a tourist. And due to my low funds, there is going to be a constant battle between hitting the tourist spots or staying abroad longer that will always lean toward the latter. I don’t want to build up this list of things I must do and places I must see. I want to see everyday life. I want to work alongside the locals. I want to partake in everyday meals and activities. And yeah, I’d like to see what landmarks I can along the way. But those aren’t my priorities.
To be honest, I’m more scared of coming home than I am of leaving. Perhaps because I don’t feel like I have a home anymore. There are plenty of friends and family who will always let me crash with them, but none of those places are my home now. In fact, I haven’t actually had a “home” in years. I’ve moved over a dozen times and lived wherever was available. Maybe that’s why I’m so quick to refer to wherever I’m sleeping tonight as home.
I would like the world to be my home, and I’m afraid that when or if I have to end this specific trip and return to the country where I can legally work, then I’ll give up and make a home here and never leave again – at least not in the same way. I’m afraid that the next adventure won’t be as good as this one. And the reality is, maybe it won’t be. Maybe I’ll have to take a break from crazy exploration so I can afford more crazy exploration. But that’s the comforting thing right there – I’ll never be satisfied sitting still. When it comes time to take a break from wandering, I’ll always have the promise of more wandering to come. That promise is what keeps me from planning and researching and setting every detail in advance. There will always be another adventure, as long as I keep on wingin’ it.