In the latest string of string misfortunes, my hemp anklet just frayed into extinction. The literal last tie to my carefree, on-the-road style.
First to go was a leather bracelet embedded with turquoise beads and, unfortunately, a layer of mold because I lazily left it on through showers/swims/monsoons. Next, I cut off an orange Buddhist string, gifted to me in Laos. It wasn’t really interview-chic, and this week was full of those. Also inappropriate? A pair of silky, see-through harem pants, which my mom insists are pajamas.
And then today, my broken hippy anklet. Sadface. So now it’s just me and the long hair, which doesn’t even wave or swing without humid Asian heat.
In all honesty, being home has made me feel a little flat, too. It’s not just the care-free style I’m craving, but the gypsy spirit of wandering.
I’ve actually started wondering if I’m addicted to travel? Is that even a thing? I mean people are addicted to sex, right? And sugar and alcohol. Regardless, jonesing to spend my last remaining dollars on a plane ticket, in spite of the consequences, is probably something I should discuss with Mara (therapist).
I mean, even after a year abroad I stayed up ‘til 5am last night kayak.com-ing my route to Cuba (via Mexico) and highlighting passages from John Jeremiah Sullivan’s recent piece in The New York Times Magazine. ”The fertility of Cuba is the thing you can’t put into words. I’ve never stood on a piece of ground as throbbingly, even pornographically, generative.”
I have to get to Cuba. And the Galapagos, Zimbabwe, Bhutan. I want to see Bangladesh and Tibet. I want to explore, interact and feel lands that throb! But the practical part of me knows that the world is going nowhere.
And, I think that it’s probably somewhat normal that after a year of traveling abroad I’m having commitment issues with my hometown. (I’ll ask Mara). And while I’m lucky that home is New York, I’m petrified at the same time to get caught back in the rapids of this city’s maniacal current, the crazy and the craazy busy, the bottomless ambitions and the limitless ladders that keep people here trapped—physically, literally, emotionally, all those allys.
If you’ve lost me, it’s because I’m delirious from staying up all night petting glossy magazine pics of Havana and washing my face repeatedly with this random Thai face-whitening wash, which I vigorously use to suds up and transport back.
And so I will wrap this up with the conviction in knowing that what’s important for me is to breathe, swim against the current and focus on the advantages of NYC while I’m here. “Happiness is not a destination, it’s a way of life”, says one of my Pinterest boards, so I’m starting a new series of monthly adventure posts, at some point in the near future. Expect things like Yemeni restaurants, Skillshare classes and other experiences aimed at helping me find my own throbbing, pornographically generative footing here in NYC.