lie no. 37 | 04.10.20

I came back from Amsterdam last year an extra special version of myself. Or, as Matt would go on to refer to these versions of me, as different chapters in my story. So, I should say, the post-Amsterdam chapter was a particularly special one.

I was high on life (among other things) and hellbent on keeping it that way. I knew I couldn’t continue my current cadence of cloud surfing, of hopping on international flights every time the tide of normalcy came crashing down on me. I made a list on the flight home of the things I love about traveling, and it was surprisingly simplistic:

-walking everywhere
-sitting outside, even when it’s cold
-the observation-rich environment
-the birds chirping
-the cloud porn
-the stars
-the sunsets, the spectacle of it, the ritual of watching them
-savoring each sip of coffee in a different cafe each day
-the epic people watching
-not being rushed
-no plans
-not always being on my phone or laptop
-the bookstores and libraries, mostly the books
-tasting new things
-hearing different languages, the universalness of understanding
-the surrender of sitting in stillness
-stopping to sit and read or write when I feel like it
-the endless discovery of it all

The list was so simple, in fact, there was literally no reason I couldn’t recreate the feeling in DC, or anywhere else for that matter. The immense joy I experience when traveling, it turns out, is actually rooted in being consistently present over an extended period of time. Travel is like one long, multi-day meditation for me. It’s no wonder I always dread the return to reality. Normalcy, at least my version of it—with its routines, its rinses and its repeats, riddled with mindlessness as it was—truly did make it harder for me to breathe. My life had become one of those errands you go to run, then blink and you’ve reached your destination without the foggiest idea how you got there.

What if I started practicing presence at home? What if I spent more time outside? What if I sat at cafes by myself, or went to museums in the middle of a weekday? What if I let my inner child out to play more? What if I stopped putting the emphasis on doing, and tried to focus more on being?

Starting with Hong Kong, then Mexico, and finally Amsterdam, I got in the habit of scheduling business meetings—and therapy—the days following my return home. It was my way of tricking myself into being serious about the things I’d been trained to be serious about upon reentry. It was also my way of justifying myself to an audience that didn’t exist. It always got me on the plane home, so I guess in that respect it did serve a purpose. It’s incredible how much power the idea of disappointing others holds. Imagine if we ever took a breath to consider how often we disappoint ourselves in the process of pleasing others.

My first week back in DC I hit the ground running, or walking. I’d long-since incorporated “Meetless Mondays,” a day without any meetings, as a way to flip the script on the Sunday Scaries. It was shockingly simple and honestly one of my better decisions ever. “Monday’s out, booked solid!” became my favorite clap back to counter a culture that values being busy more than simply being. 

On Tuesday, I walked the mile to therapy instead of driving. Not even two days in and it was amazing what padding my schedule with that extra time to allow for walking everywhere did for my punctuality. 

My therapist started by apologizing for the loud noise from the construction happening in the building. I laughed, and pointed out how all the hotels of my recent travels had been under construction and how oddly relatable it felt. She made a joke about how my passport was going to put her out of a job. She suggested I package my recent itineraries and sell them to some of her other clients. Travel, but make it self-discovery! I laughed, but deep down I couldn’t disagree more. It had nothing to do with the geographical places I’d visited. It had everything to do with finally going to the one place I’d avoided going for so long: inward.

As a kid, my mom always took us to the Toys ‘R Us near our dentist after each appointment to pick out a treat, so it’s no wonder I picked up the ritual of rewarding myself with a trip to the bookstore after every therapy appointment as an adult. (These were not shopping sprees as a kid, I should note. A $9 Barbie probably brought me less joy, or at least as much, as one of those tablets you could buy for less than a buck and soak in water to get a washcloth.) My preferred day for therapy appointment’s is Tuesday, which, not coincidentally, is the day new releases hit the shelves.

Post-appointment that day, with my new books in hand, I walked into Dupont Circle. This was way too easy, I remember thinking. I actually did feel like I was walking through Amsterdam. There were even these signs hanging on the light posts lining the circle advertising DC as “home to the world,” one of which had a picture of what looked just like the Big Buddha I visited in Hong Kong. (Universe, Are you there? It’s me, Rebecca)

I also remember wishing I’d asked my therapist about the effects of self delusion and if it warranted concern. And then a bird flew smack into the back of my head, nearly knocking me over. I wish I could say I was kidding, as if that day I invented a new “and then I found five dollars” joke. A couple of tourists nearby gasped. I assured them I was fine but then sat down on the nearest bench to be sure I actually was. It startled the shit out of me, not the incident, but the absolute absence of my startle. Like a proper psychopath, I started laughing uncontrollably. Out loud. All alone. In a park full of strangers. *Googles if uncontrollable laughter is a sign of a concussion.* (It’s not.)

It felt like a sign. Like, duh, dummy. You can walk and sit in parks and read books whenever you damn well feel like it here, too! Oprah has her Ah-ha Moments™️. It’s only natural my own would require an extra dose of drama and danger, like, you know, a bird somehow missing my giant head and flying directly into it.

I have no idea if those people were tourists, by the way. I just guessed they were that day, because who the hell else wanders around a park in the middle of the day? Maybe they, too, were DC denizens pretending. To this day I still wonder where they were pretending to be.

Part of what I brought to therapy that day was the perplexing frustration with my sudden influx of big consulting opportunities. You want first-world problems? Try deciding with your whole heart to follow said heart down an in-the-moment-profitless path and watch the opportunities to make more money than you could ever imagine get dangled in your face like meat in the cages of Tiger King. It’s confusing (and privileged as fuck). I chased those opportunities, because that’s what normal people do. You do serious work and you get paid so you can enjoy actual jaunts to Europe instead of playing make believe. You don’t sit in parks reading, pretending you’re there. 

I made a mental note to remember not to mention my therapist’s potentially monetizable idea to Matt. He’d started to really wonder how I planned to generate revenue. My first night back he told me it seemed like I was “floundering professionally,” and how it might help if I pick a lane. This was right after I made my dramatic proclamation about wanting to focus more on writing.  (Because of Van Gogh. And some letters he wrote his brother. Still not over what a brilliant writer he was.) Matt seemed overly concerned with how I planned to make money as a writer—probably more so after I pointed out that my man Vince only sold one painting while he was alive. The truth is I was as terrified as I was mortified. 

“Floundering.” That doesn’t sound very attractive. Pretty pathetic, actually. And here I was thinking I’d just made it to the other shore. Or, at least I’d finally found calmer waters to swim in. How is it that all he sees is me splashing about, seemingly in need of a life raft, the second I stop feeling like I’m drowning? As soon as I caught myself reaching for my bow and anger arrows—my default for fighting my humiliation—I put myself in time out. Just like I did that night in Amsterdam. I sat down at my desk and after giving it some thought, I decided I’d rather be laneless. Like, I’ll still be responsible and not a danger to myself or others, but staying in my lane hasn’t exactly worked out all that well for me. Maybe, just maybe, I simply need to get better about using my signal—not necessarily so others are aware I’m about to change lanes, but so I know I am. 

I calmly reported all this back to Matt. He understood, then he reminded me no one will take me seriously if I don’t take myself seriously. The man had a point. I opened Instagram and moved “writer” ahead of “researcher” in my bio. No one would ever notice, but I had a feeling it might be a helpful reminder for me.

The next weekend I wrote the following:

“Walking the dog after discovering the practice of finding your place, of wandering purposefully but without a destination in mind, is dangerous. You realize dogs don’t have the freedom to practice the same way you do if you’re always taking them on the walk. You have to let them take you occasionally. It’s only fair. Just don’t be disappointed when the place she’s seeking with her whole heart leads you to a tree box full of shit.”

Uh. Welcome to the inside of my brain?

A girlfriend texted me the following almost a month ago: “All these travel bans must be hard for your traveler’s heart.”

Once I got past the standard shame and guilt this well-intentioned friend’s sentiments induced—“holy shit, what a first-world problem for people to think I’m struggling with!”—I sat back for a second, caught off guard yet again by the absolute absence of feelings I wholeheartedly believed I should be feeling: sadness, grief, loss. And yet, I wasn’t sad—not in the slightest. I wasn’t sad about my sudden, forced inability to travel, to escape, nor the collective’s.

Here we are, the whole world virtually grounded—a more grown-up version of being in timeout—by a global pandemic. As someone who loves—lives!—to travel, shouldn’t I be upset by this forced stillness?

When I look back at that list of what I loved about traveling pre-pandemic, I’m reminded of why I feel as if the last year of my life was basic training for this moment, post-pandemic.

One of my absolute favorite things about traveling abroad is, without fail, remembering how interconnected everything—everyone and everywhere—truly are. Seeing all the commonalities among our vast dichotomies is truly a thing of wonder—particularly at a time when it's easy to feel like it'll be our differences that destroy us. For me, that duality gives me the space to remember maybe, just maybe, it’ll be our differences that actually connects us.