Cold clings to my back, the hard pavement offering minimal comfort. A hand slung over my face, blocking the intense spring sunlight from tired eyes, my thoughts are no longer here. They are lost among the waves of the day, trapped in the canyon walls, abandoned on the lonely two lane road. My eyes closed, I listen. The ambient noise of the city not reaching my ears, not able to it seems. I can almost hear the waves of the lake, the sudden chatter of sloppy Spanish, the crunching of feet upon coarse dark sand. If I refused to open my eyes, because for a moment, I might believe I am back. I might believe I am once again in Chile.
"You can never return to your hometown."
Steinbeck saved me in Peru. His book kept my hope alive and my mind sane during the three day ordeal of starvation, dehydration, and blistering heat. He allowed for an escape from the survival mentality I was locked into to, he showed me a light other than the harsh and foreboding one of the desert sun. His books filled with wonderful quotes, one seemed to be highlighted on the page, my eyes fixated to the comment, re reading it with a sudden vigor. "You can never return to your hometown" it read. As I was in the long process of finding my way "home," I latched onto that comment, and waited to see if it would hold true.
Each bend in the road was filled with memories, each scent a reminder of past emotions, long forgotten thoughts. Each storefront, conversation with friends, and paddle stroke is filled with the unclear memoires of a uncomfortable youth. Upon my return, hair twisted into unwanted dreadlocks from days lacking showers, body sore and aching from travel, and a mind weak from the past week of hell, I stumbled into the shower. The warm water massaged my weary back, steam clouding my blurry vision.
Lavender, the aroma drifted from my freshly shampooed hair.
I could see the Iron bars of the rapidly approaching bridge, the crisp fall air, the Northern California forest slowly succumbing to an oncoming cold. My heart once again felt the fresh sting of a long forgotten pain. It was strange back then, a new love found, and old one lost but not yet forgotten. She stuck out in my mind like a large sieve in a treacherous rapid. That night, on the first day of fall two years ago, I knew would forever be held in the nostalgia of childhood, the perfection of a night filled with "firsts." No matter how wonderful any experience would be, it could never live up to that festival in the mountains, that time of close friends and amazing whitewater.
The shower ended, but the aroma lingered.
Being home is filled with reuniting. Friendly pats on the back, long overdue embraces, and a retelling of my adventures. Yet, I seem to find myself aloof in this city, uncomfortable with my surroundings. I do not feel as though I returned home, but instead seem to find myself waiting for the next leg of my life, the next chapter in my ever lengthening novel. I miss the rapid fluid conversations in Spanish, I miss the fierce southern sun, I miss the warm kind nature of the locals, I miss the safety of the streets, I miss the freedom I felt. It does not matter how much I miss a place, I must always wait to return, I am never allowed to stay.
For now, October calls me, and I will wait patiently.
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