My last two posts were done in Nepal, and now I'm in Tennessee.
From Kathmandu, I had a one-way ticket to Paris, and that is where I went. I met up with old friends who were living there, and I ate beef tar-tar. I spoke Spanish with a French accent because that was the closest thing I knew, and I kissed a boy next to the Seine because it seemed like a good idea. I read Noam Chomsky and rediscovered Anais Nin--I'm always drawn to her diaries when I travel. I saw paintings and sculptures that I had written about in art history class, and I took photos on the east facade of the Pantheon. I jogged in the park next to the university, and my hiking boots were stolen from my hostel--I guess someone else needed them more than I did.
And when I arrived in the city after three months of hiking and fieldwork in Nepal's Annapurna mountains, I realized that I wasn't homesick for America. In fact, I found that I haven't been homesick in a very long time. I simply missed the West, and all of the bread, espresso, and reliable wi-fi that comes with it. But after a day or two of gorging myself on baguettes, cheese, lattes, and Facebook, I wanted to be back in the mountains. I missed my friends who were still in Nepal. I missed the 15 minute climb to use the marginal wi-fi at the German Bakery and the masala tea and chocolate donuts that were served there. I missed missing meat.
I took hot showers in Paris. In the mornings, I awoke on top of a soft mattress with my head on top of a soft pillow. My sleeping bag remained in my pack because I had bed linens. When I pulled back the curtain, I didn't see the Annapurna's towering silently over my window, watching the town go and come with the sun. I heard car horns and cell phones and clicking heels and bicycle bells. In the nighttime, it only became louder.
The sidewalks were flat and even, and the metro would carry me from one side of the city to the other in very little time. I walked twenty kilometers one day because it seemed like a good idea, and I took the stairs to the top of the Eiffel Tower because I wondered if it would be difficult.
I didn't pack blue jeans when I left for Nepal, but I wanted to wear them on the streets and in the bars of Paris. And every shop window and handsome stranger that I passed reminded me of the importance of being beautiful. After all, that is the way in which one most easily convinces the passing world that she is happy and successful. I went shopping for blue jeans and was overwhelmed by the choices. Later, I bought a pair of nice shoes that called to me from a window.
I wore them for two days before I packed them away with most of my other belongings. I dropped my backpack and photography gear off at a storage warehouse that, for a small price, promised to hold it until I didn't need them to hold it anymore. I had a one-way ticket to Santander, Spain that was scheduled to leave the next evening because I wanted to hike the Camino de Santiago.
The morning of my flight, I went shopping for last-minute necessities. My feet were cold as I walked through the city in flip-flops and black exercise tights, but I felt happy and ambitious as I walked by the storefronts and beautiful strangers. Later, I bought a pair of hiking shoes that looked like they could be useful. As I boarded the airplane at the Paris-Beauvais airport, I spoke Spanish with an Argentine accent because that is what I knew.
From Kathmandu, I had a one-way ticket to Paris, and that is where I went. I met up with old friends who were living there, and I ate beef tar-tar. I spoke Spanish with a French accent because that was the closest thing I knew, and I kissed a boy next to the Seine because it seemed like a good idea. I read Noam Chomsky and rediscovered Anais Nin--I'm always drawn to her diaries when I travel. I saw paintings and sculptures that I had written about in art history class, and I took photos on the east facade of the Pantheon. I jogged in the park next to the university, and my hiking boots were stolen from my hostel--I guess someone else needed them more than I did.
And when I arrived in the city after three months of hiking and fieldwork in Nepal's Annapurna mountains, I realized that I wasn't homesick for America. In fact, I found that I haven't been homesick in a very long time. I simply missed the West, and all of the bread, espresso, and reliable wi-fi that comes with it. But after a day or two of gorging myself on baguettes, cheese, lattes, and Facebook, I wanted to be back in the mountains. I missed my friends who were still in Nepal. I missed the 15 minute climb to use the marginal wi-fi at the German Bakery and the masala tea and chocolate donuts that were served there. I missed missing meat.
I took hot showers in Paris. In the mornings, I awoke on top of a soft mattress with my head on top of a soft pillow. My sleeping bag remained in my pack because I had bed linens. When I pulled back the curtain, I didn't see the Annapurna's towering silently over my window, watching the town go and come with the sun. I heard car horns and cell phones and clicking heels and bicycle bells. In the nighttime, it only became louder.
The sidewalks were flat and even, and the metro would carry me from one side of the city to the other in very little time. I walked twenty kilometers one day because it seemed like a good idea, and I took the stairs to the top of the Eiffel Tower because I wondered if it would be difficult.
I didn't pack blue jeans when I left for Nepal, but I wanted to wear them on the streets and in the bars of Paris. And every shop window and handsome stranger that I passed reminded me of the importance of being beautiful. After all, that is the way in which one most easily convinces the passing world that she is happy and successful. I went shopping for blue jeans and was overwhelmed by the choices. Later, I bought a pair of nice shoes that called to me from a window.
I wore them for two days before I packed them away with most of my other belongings. I dropped my backpack and photography gear off at a storage warehouse that, for a small price, promised to hold it until I didn't need them to hold it anymore. I had a one-way ticket to Santander, Spain that was scheduled to leave the next evening because I wanted to hike the Camino de Santiago.
The morning of my flight, I went shopping for last-minute necessities. My feet were cold as I walked through the city in flip-flops and black exercise tights, but I felt happy and ambitious as I walked by the storefronts and beautiful strangers. Later, I bought a pair of hiking shoes that looked like they could be useful. As I boarded the airplane at the Paris-Beauvais airport, I spoke Spanish with an Argentine accent because that is what I knew.
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| Ceiling of the Pantheon |
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| Eiffel Tower at Sunset |
