It was when I left Bogotá for the north coast of Colombia, I now realize, that my head left for home. The same thing happened my last week in Spain. Already looking forward to Buenos Aires and the new continent that lay before me, I wasn't fully engaged. Now I was even less present, and this time the fact that I was soon to return home was only partly responsible. I loved most of Colombia. But the oppressive heat and legions of hustlers that plague the north left a bad taste in my mouth.
My little sister had studied abroad in Costa Rica and said it was a bit of a culture shock coming back to America. But she stayed with a family, whereas I was almost exclusively in hostels, those outposts of anglophone civilization where the foreignness found outside the walls never takes complete hold. I did experience a little discord. Driving around my hometown in the coming days I marveled at American civic organization. So much of South America is run down, and after three months of choking on car exhaust every time I walked down a busy street, of seeing the ramshackle sprawl that comprises most cities where barefoot old women beg for alms and stray dogs feed from roadside trashpiles, I was a bit worn out. And of course it was nice to run an errand without having to use my much-improved but still inadequate Spanish, thereby provoking a bemused, mocking grin from the checkout girl.
The cumulative effect of these small comforts was a big one: the world I'd left behind was the same one I returned to. Seeing my friends and family was the best part. But I'd had some contact with them. What made it feel like home were the small things, things very tangible: my fireplace, my library, my old haunts in Chicago. Everyone on the road told me there would be a honeymoon. You're a tourist in your own city for a week or so, then the depression sets in. Still waiting for that - it's been three weeks home, and though I had vague plans to leave again fairly soon, I'd be hard-pressed to do that now. I'm done with my trip, and am ready to get on with my life.
About that life. One reason I set out on this journey was to become a professional writer, or at least get started down that path. And though I never counted on mere travel to do this for me, it did help. Travel gave me stories that I was able to set down in words more or less well. I gained a great deal of confidence in my ability - some of it quite recently. While abroad I heard some kind words for this blog from close friends but beyond that the response was, well, muted. Or so I thought. At the bar the night of my homecoming a more distant friend came up to me practically gushing about how much she liked it. A week later at a holiday party I was greeted with even more plaudits from unexpected corners. I did my best to conceal my delight. I had fans. No novel presented itself, and I'm not on contract with Condé Nast. But I believe like never before that I can make it as a writer, and others seem to agree.
And my other reason for going? It was a curiosity, an inclination, an itch. "I just want to see the places," was my response to pre-departure interrogation from skeptical relatives. Now, when they ask me how it went, I'm able to deploy a whole range of superlatives: "the time of my life", "best thing I ever did", "what an adventure." They're all true, but the reply that most accurately speaks to how I feel is, "it was the right thing to do." When that girl first planted the idea in my head at the Green Eye tavern fifteen months ago, I was electrified. The more I realized it was possible, the more I had to go.
But I wasn't sure why I felt this way, and worried my true motivation wasn't the right one. I was a writer without a story, a person who loved words working at a bank. Was a journey really what I wanted, or was it merely a grand escape from a life I'd become dissatisfied with but didn't know how to change?
I'm reminded of what Jake tells Robert Cohn in The Sun Also Rises: "Going to another country doesn't make any difference. I've tried all that. You can't get away from yourself by moving from one place to another." I knew this quote before I left and knew it was true. Travel can't fix any discontentment that one is hanging on to, but that discontented state of mind can provide the conditions for attempting something you wouldn't otherwise have tried. I had always wanted to travel but never did. If I had liked my job and was doing well in it, I'd still be listening quietly, with self-pitying envy, when the subject of travel came up and others recalled their great adventures.
As I discovered, travel justifies itself. The times I've had, places I've seen, people I've met - I hope this blog gives a sense of just how good they were. Whenever you leave a place without knowing your destination, you'll be told you're running from something. In my case, the person telling me that was myself. Thank god I didn't listen. My heart said to go and I went. My reasons weren't the problem - the only problem was getting there. That's sure solved now.
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