The first few hours after stepping off a plane and back into the real world, following the wonder of going overseas, are bizarre. There’s a feeling of displacement and down-the-rabbit-hole surrealism. It’s stranger being home, somehow, than it was being away.
There’s a rush and a burble of stories and memories and photos that I share with whoever will listen; the words running out of my mouth faster than my mind’s eye can keep up with them. Being home again allows the whole experience to become encapsulated in a mental bubble of smells and sights and sounds. The holiday now has a feel to it… a past tense. Or a ‘felt’, perhaps, rather than ‘feel’. A story, completed.
The comedown simmers slowly, big bubbles of sad and ‘Oh, it’s over’, that pop slowly and spill forth with the simple desire to do it all again. It’s not depressing. More just… annoying.
Really, with itchy feet and a new-found lack of fear to get in the way, the only question now is… what adventure do I work on next?