Lost

I spent four years in a city large town city without ever knowing if I was taking the shortest route from point A to point B.  I knew where I was coming from and where I was going and even which road I was on, but I just didn't know if there was a better way, or if I was destined to take another turn that would dump me even farther from where I wanted to be.  (Let's blame this on one-way roads and, uh, well, not getting out enough.  But mostly one-way roads, ok?)  I would get there eventually, hopefully on time.   I spent a lot of those rides on the phone with a friend nearly hysterical with laughter because after YEARS of living in this tiny city I could still end up lost.

I would cringe at the thought of being lost.  My friend, one of those that has known me almost too well for years, usually would ease my fears and remind me that I wasn't really lost.  I knew where I came from, where I was going, where I was at that moment in time, and even how to get where I wanted to be.  I was just anxious because I wasn't sure I was taking the "right" route.  I wasn't sure precisely how long it would take to get there.  (It's a small town city.  The difference would be a matter of a few minutes.)  I was only panicked upset because I felt inadequate in my navigation.  Not because I was actually lost.  I was uncomfortable because I'm used to being spot-on with my inner compass.  (We're talking rural dirt roads and international metropolitan subway spot-on internal compass success.  Or, you know, something close to it.)  Uncertainty in my, uh, talent, and the possibility of being wrong/different/slow spun into the feelings of being lost.

I've been lost a handful of times.  Usually when I'm not sure where my destination is located.  Or when I think I am going one place and then find out that I am actually supposed to be somewhere else.  At least once I have gotten lost when I have had to take an unexpected detour.  (Those orange detour signs are not as helpful as one might think.)   Actually being lost is unsettling, scary, lonely, helpless, and sad.

The metaphor here is that I remind myself everyday that I am not figuratively lost.  My life right now is not the ideal, but I'm not really lost.  I've been lost in life, and it feels the same way it does when I am lost in a car - sad.  I'm not sad right now.  I'm uncertain and anxious and slightly upset but not sad.  I know where I came from and where I am headed.  I know that I'm a path to get to where I want to be. (I know where I want to be, doesn't that count for something?  Doesn't that count for a lot?)  I can look around and see exactly where I am on my journey.  I'm just not sure that I took the fastest route or the "right" route. I'm worried that I'm going to get there too late.  (Honestly, I don't even know what "too late" is, but I'm constantly worried about it.)  I'm questioning the route I chose to take, and I'm uncomfortable with the new uncertainty at my decisions, accustomed to having complete faith in my "inner compass".  I'm feeling in adequate in my navigation because I'm not there yet.  I've come so far, and I know where I am going, but I just want to be there.  Now.

So, for now I'm reminding myself that I'm not lost.  And that I will get there.  I will get there.

From The Department of Insomnia Gone

(via)

Last night I had a dream that left me longing for the return to sleep when morning arrived.  Late night thoughts calmly and seamlessly rolled into sweet, vivid dreams.  I woke with a smile.

I remember endless night hours of tossing and turning, breathing the minutes in and out, staring at the ceiling, the wall, the back of my eyelids... Dark nights filled with darker nightmares, clenched fists, t-shirts damp with sweat... Mornings that came too soon and not soon enough.  They become memories now, labeled and filed away under "distant".

The summer afternoons move slowly, and I miss people I love, but I am happy.  This is calm and sweet and vivid.

In Which Unemployment Feels Like These Hot Summer Days

These summer days move slowly.  Heavy with humidity, the morning dew hangs in the air all day.  Cool, morning showers un-purpose themselves by mid-morning.  As does every moment of my morning routine: choosing an outfit, hot coffee, rolling over in bed to check my email...I have all day.  By afternoon I am struggling against the allure of the couch laid out under the fan.  Afternoon heat-induced naps run counter to my well known air-conditioned office afternoons of summers past.  Those summer afternoons with crisp, cold air that nudges the afternoon quickly along.  Productive, linear, and direct, in sync to the air-conditioner's hum.  Now even those memories hang hot and heavy in the air around me.  I check the weather for a forecast I know I will not find: a break from these hot summer days.

Here, Now

I'm determined to keep these thoughts at bay.  "Not until we land," I tell myself.  Of course I think I'm clever, because I know once we land we'll be in such a whirlwind of air trams and subways and commuter rails that I won't have space for these worries.  And once I get home I'll collapse from exhausting travel, jet lag, and the lack of cheese fondue.  I won't have the energy for these worries then either.  So I tell myself, "not until we land," and almost believe I'm tricking myself.  Sure, it takes a little more than that phrase on repeat.  I watch a couple of movies and take deep breaths during the lulls.  Blame the number of deep breaths on the poor quality of the movies.  I pull out the sudoku book I haven't touched since I purchased it in the airport before our flight over.  Hours and hours of flights and trains where I've let my mind ceaselessly wander and drift.  Miles of footsteps without a single worry. 

We walked through city valleys and stood on trains chugging over mountain sides.  We leaned over the sides of river bridges and watched the sea crash into rock walls.  My thoughts roamed free.  Darted through cars and in front of metros.  Rolled down mountain sides, claimed the point of mountain peaks, plunged into the cold sea.  Returned to me refreshed, exhilarated, and airy. 

The air on the plane is stale.  My head is threatening to ache.  I remind myself that it is impossible for the walls to literally be closing in and that I'm never claustrophobic in spaces this large.  A wave of anxiety rushes over me: unemployment, living back home, student loans, summer boredom, too old for this...  "You can handle this."  It's an abrupt voice.  A strong voice.  "Handle this."  Steady.  Calm.  Insistent.  I obey. 

I don't trust my ipod, so I flip through the in-air music selection.  Find a cover song by a favorite artist.  Something I haven't heard before.  Press play.   Lean into it.  Feel my muscles relax, my mind settle, my breath steady.  It's an acoustic lullaby without a promise of anything.  Steady strings and a smooth voice.  Without a repeat button, I hit the back button, time and time and time again.  I settle into a liminal state.  I'm somewhere over the Atlantic.  I'm somewhere in between.  I'm here, now. 

May 6th to June 6th

• Final Presentation,
• Final Project,
• Final Exam,
• Move,
• Friend’s Graduation in Albany, 
• (My Graduation In Absentia),
• Friend’s Wedding Vow Renewal Ceremony in Connecticut,
• Phone Interview,
• Eight Hour Drive to Western Pennsylvania for a New Puppy for Mom,
• Friends’ Wedding in Maine,
• Depart NYC for
• Galway,
• Dublin,
• Geneva,
• Interlaken,
• Zurich,
• Munich,
• Dublin 12 hr Layover,
• NYC Transit/Metro-North (yes, this took long enough to require its own line),
• HOME.

In Which I Forget My Name During The LONG Trip Home

So we leave Munich at 4pm Munich Time via a taxi cab with a driver that smells so badly I have to keep my window open despite the fact that we are going AT LEAST 100 mph on the autobahn (aka German highway that doesn't have a speed limit, according to my high school chemistry professor from Germany and my brother).  I hold my breath and have a twenty minute debate as to whether or not I should close my eyes: to see Germany with the fear of death instilled in me or to let it pass by without dying of fear? - that is the question.  We arrive at the airport in 20 minutes despite the fact that it was 45 MILES (or meters? why don't i know this?) from the hotel.  (Yes, we were staying in a budget hotel - it was LUXURY to have our own bathroom in our room, but I already miss the hostels.) Brother tries to argue with the cab driver over the fare despite the fact that the cab drive doesn't speak a WORD of English.  So Brother and I squabble over the point of arguing the fare and the cab driver walks away happy.  Munich airport process takes 15 minutes tops.  Quiet time 'til we fly.

 Flight to Dublin ensues easily, quickly, smoothly, lovely.  We land in Dublin at 10pm Ireland time (11pm Munich time) and enjoy a whole 10 hours with our own bathroom again.  Yes, luxury.

Check out of Dublin hotel at 8am and take their free shuttle to the airport where I already have a tug on my heart because I am leaving a country that I have become fond of (to say "love" is too soon, "infatuation" implies butterflies, and this adoration is more of a long hug and a hand to hold) not once but now TWICE this trip.

Dublin airport adheres to US requests for homeland security, and I want to take a video of the ridiculous procedures it took to get back into the U.S.  (Is there really a preventative element to all this, does it work?  We show our passport for baggage check and boarding pass printing.  We show our passport before we enter security.  We show our passport at security.  We have our backpack carry-on searched (only in Newark was it mandatory that we take off our shoes.).  We are given a customs form to fill out.  We have our passport checked and customs form stamped.  We then go through customs before even leaving Ireland, so again, passport checked and customs form stamped.  On the walkway up to the door of the plane they are doing random bag searches.  We avoid this one, thankfully, because I have now gotten over the shock of the cab driver in Munich and my patience is running out.  Also, I still haven't had my morning coffee because we have only 1.20 euros left, which isn't enough for airport coffee, and the fees to use a credit card would make the coffee $5.00 US dollars.  Not worth it for a tiny cup of not great coffee.  So yes, those guys were lucky they didn't search our bag again.  Ha.

Two movies (Dear John and What Happens in Rome - neither good movies), two episodes of Sex and the City, four sudoku puzzles, and three chapters of Memoirs of a Geisha, and four cups of coffee later we touch down in JFK at 1pm EST (or 6pm Dublin Time, or 7pm Munich time).

Sweet mercy, we do not have to go through customs because we did it in Dublin.  We go to collect our bags.  We listen to the overhead announcement every four minutes that there is a technical glitch in transporting our luggage and it will be there momentarily.  We listen to this announcement ten times and collect our luggage forty minutes later.  I am too tired to even care.  We have to show our passport again and hand in our customs form.  We are FINALLY approved for entrance into the US.  Phew?  I'm not sure, I already want to go back...

We take the airtram to the Jamaica, Queens subway station.  The E isn't running due to Sunday repair schedule.  We jam into a hot, overcrowded city bus and take a much unwanted tour of Queens, New York.  We make it to the stop that actually runs the E.  We get on.  45 minutes later we are in Manhattan on 53rd.  We transfer to the 6.  I love the 6 because it's the familiar and the known and I finally feel home even though this isn't home.  I start to get excited about the prospect of living here, and then sad because I'm so far from a place that feels like home before I even live there.

We finally get off at Grand Central Station.  I have now lugged my HEAVY suitcase up and down no less (but probably more) than 18 flights of stairs.  (This includes the 6 flights that it took to determine if we were going to take the E out of Queens or the Long Island Railroad.  If you are ever in this situation, take the Long Island Railroad.  Trust me.)  Brother says goodbye at 3:45pm EST, or 8:45pm Dublin time or 9:45pm Munich time.  My body is so confused that it just demands coffee.  I go to Starbucks.  

I take the 4:07 train back to New Haven.  It's Sunday and MetroNorth New Haven Line doesn't run trains as frequently as they should.  It is a crowded train, and I don't have a lot of options regarding where both my luggage (1 HEAVY suitcase, 1 HEAVY backpack, 1 camera case and 1 HEAVY purse) can all sit close to each other and not take up more than one seat.  (Thank you persistent overhead announcement. I get it.  You are in English, trust me, I understand.) I find a place for my luggage in the front and sit in the closest seat.  I cringe because the seat I am in makes up a four seat area with two seats facing my seat.  This means companions of the close and personal kind.  I put in my ipod and look out the window.  A group of fourth grade girls with chaperons gets on the train.  The chaperons see that I am tiny and I have three seats empty.  They decide that one chaperon and FOUR girls can fit in this space.  We all figure out that is not possible and divide it down to three girls and one adult.  The train finally leaves.  I planned on the traditional 1hr 40 minute ride.  But this train runs express to Stamford and then makes ALL LOCAL STOPS.  So my ride becomes two hours of hangman characters from the wax museum and well-behaved but screechy fourth grade girls.  I want to ask them if they know where Dublin is and how about Munich?  Because that was the starting point of my trip, not the wax museum.

The train pulls into New Haven at 6:15pm EST, or 11:15 Dublin time or 12:15 Munich time.  I am thankful for my passport because I don't know my own name anymore. 

Hallelujah

The tears came somewhere in the middle of Jeff Buckley’s Hallelujah when the snow-capped peaks came out of the sky to stand in front of us.  Majestic power and strength all mighty.  THIS LIFE summoned; it gripped my chest and captured by breath until I gasped sweet release on the exhale.  Tears percolated and brimmed in the same instant.  Gently held pools of holy water reflecting revelation that I cannot harm this life.  Majestic mountains will stand for eternity; I am irrelevant in the shadow of their jagged peaks.  And this is my release, my permission to exhale.  “Love is not a victory march; it’s a cold and it’s a broken hallelujah.”

Thank You, Ireland

The women in the Dublin airport wear sweatpants and ponytails.  Faces clean.  I understand this better than the red stilettos and short skirts in New York, New Jersey.  She has sunburnt hair and a soft accent.  I gladly agree to watch her bag because I must owe 1,000 strangers the pay-it-forward kindness I have received in Ireland.  A thousand friendly hellos and two dozen kind winks.   

At the outside cafe in Galway, I saved her a seat next to me while she went inside to get coffee.  When we emptied our cups, tired our tongues, divulged abridged autobiographies, she went back inside and paid for next morning’s coffee and scones for Brother and I.  A hug did not express enough gratitude for kindness, for coffee and scones.  For the reminder that the world is not NYC, where strangers cautiously eye one another, where stilettos, short skirts, and mascara wait for flights without a glance towards the older woman who needs a seat in the terminal.  I threw my arms around her in gratitude.  Thank you so much, kind Ireland.