My eyes snap open, and my brain begins to whir. Where am I? Istanbul? Vienna? Reykjavik? No, Alaska.
Maybe there's a trigger in my very own home pillow that binds magnetlike to its partner in my head and sets off this morning's rapid-clip parade of thoughts. Never mind that I am neither able nor interested in starting on any of the tasks quickly jotted on today's To-Do list by my early-rising subconscious: the dogs are still at the sitter's; the accumulated mail isn't delivered until later today; the husband is sleeping, so too early for house-rummaging; groceries.... Ahhh, thanks to the 24-hour grocery store, one can ALWAYS do grocery shopping. And, after a nearly four week absence, the refrigerator is looking pretty barren -- but at least it doesn't smell bad.
So I get up. No sense just lying there -- or is that my mother's voice?
As usual post-travel, first thing out of bed, I am nearly paralyzed by the decision of what to wear today. After having lived in the same two pairs of pants (okay, three -- what can I say? I don't pack as lightly as I used to), skirt, and four or five shirts for the past three and a half weeks, suddenly being faced with an entire drawer of pant options is almost overwhelming.
My first thought is always, "Why do I need this much stuff anyway?" which is immediately followed by, "Oh, my green fleece pajama pants! I LOVE those!" My next coherent thought is how frequently I look in my closet and, akin to any high school senior, I feel I "have nothing to wear!" and that thought's juxtaposition to my first thought. I feel the hint of a profound realization about perspective and excess and societal pressures nibbling at my awareness, so I turn off the light and leave the room: No one should have profound realizations before 7am.
Preserving the quiet of the morning, I pour myself a cup of tea (not Turkey's delicious chai, which I already miss) and sort through the flotsam and jetsam of our travel gatherings. Various gifts and trinkets litter the kitchen table for last night's first round of unpacking. A couple of Turkish wines for my husband's coworkers. A bag of assorted fruits and spices from the Spice Market in Istanbul. A scarf of two, which calls to mind the daring feats of negotiation needed to procure them from the vendor -- he still probably made a huge profit, while letting me think I got the better deal.
And the money. Or moneys, I should say: the table is littered with currency from at least four nations. Pink and green and blue paper money mingle with coins of assorted sizes and values. Lira and euros and kronors ... and America's boring uniform green bills among them. How long until our progressive Western nation has a female figure on our currency, as does the Turkish 5000 kronor bill? (Don't get too excited, it's worth about $50 US.)
Somehow, the money is one of the most exotic aspects of travel. It's why I'm not necessarily eager to get rid of every last bill before I leave a country -- stashing those monies away in plastic bags allows me to see and handle those memories from time to time when I find myself rummaging through the "travel" drawers for some other reason. The money, in particular, reminds me that I wasn't just passing through; it's evidence that I engaged, however superficially, with another human being who is in some small way different from me. And keeping the money allows me the illusion that I could, at the drop of a hat, fly back there and do it all over again.
This morning, the memories of the trip are still thick and vivid. I was, after all, just in Reykjavik yesterday morning. They cling to me like a film of honey obscuring my view of "normal" life: my home, the laundry, the groceries. But I can feel them degrading in intensity already, small particles washing away from the edges. The delicious red tomato and nut paste we ate -- was that in Urgup, or Olympos? What was John the Brit's wife's name again? The bookstore in Vienna: was it called "Shakespeare in Love" or "Shakespeare & Company"?
I am hopeful the photos will help refresh the memories over time. I've started taking pictures less with an eye at capturing a beautiful frameable print than to trigger a small memory: Chad & Almilla standing on a Bodrum beach at sunset, the color of the setting sun on the stark cliffs of Reykjavik, that crazy litter of kittens on the rooftop next to ours in Istanbul. These are usually the memories I crawl inside on bleak November Alaska days. Or even moreso, on the days when I'm not convinced my Life is walking its true path. These little events -- always somehow more important than standing in the Hagia Sophia or walking the Theodosian walls, which it seems any idiot with money could do -- are the nuts and bolts of travel. Buying bread in the little grocery store down "our" street in Istanbul. I lived that moment, was a true and functioning person swept up in daily ebb and flow of normal ordinary humans.
But I can feel the ebb and flow of my own daily life calling to me, as my stomach grumbles and I am reminded that fig jam and maraschino cherries do not a healthy breakfast make. And so, to the store for groceries then to the sitter's for dogs -- ahh, the dogs. Sometimes when I travel, I forget I have dogs. With their insistent existential zeal for Life, they will undoubtedly help ground me in this next new chapter again at home. But already, just a little, I miss the road.
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