good night, and good luck.

Last week, at a dimly lit pub in London, I sat listening to one of my former acquaintances trail off into a drunken, mumbled tirade about love and long distance relationships. The room was loud, and there were moments where I only barely understood what he was saying, but I knew that asking him to repeat himself would only lead us down more dark paths that I maybe didn’t want to go down. Perhaps sensing my inability to connect with anything he was saying, he excused himself for a cigarette.

In his absence, I stared around the room, taking in the well-worn carpet, the wood-paneled walls and the clusters of people loudly jostling for attention at the bar. I’d come to London with more than enough money to have a wonderful vacation, and equipped with a mind open and ready to love London in the way I loved Paris. But I simply couldn’t do it. I went to pubs with good friends, wandered galleries, shopped at amazing stores, and still I couldn’t speak of the Big Smoke in the same amorous tones that the mere mention of Paris inspired in me. Much like the conversation with my friend, I was present in the conversation, but a combination of external forces kept me from being truly engaged with my surroundings.

Days later, as my sister and I boarded the plane home to Seattle, I felt a sense of relief wash over me. The last time I left Paris, I cried silently into an itchy wool airplane blanket, as I listened to “J’ai deux amours” on loop for 30 minutes. 

I always come away from trips with unexpected lessons. Sometimes its about preparedness or financial responsibility; but this time, I came to understand that sometimes, you can’t force a connection with a place or a person. It just isn’t there. 

I’ll apply this lesson not only to London (maybe I should stop visiting so frequently if I’m not actually fond of it), but to Seattle. I’m going to give this place another year. A full year, actively engaged in what’s around me and committed to this place in a way I haven’t been (even now, my apartment is decorated in a way that says “I can definitely pack up and leave in 3 hours if necessary”) 100 percent about. Part of this is that yes, my mother lives with me, and how can I enjoy where I live if I have a really terrible living situation? My inclination right now is to run as far away from here as possible. But I do enjoy my job, and once my mom is out of my house, I am ready to give this place a shot. If I’m not happy by my 29th birthday, it’s time to pick up stakes and head for the horizon. 

Oh, and yes, my next vacation? Paris. Two weeks of working remotely, one week of touristing. 

Always a good idea.