(FYI: I wrote this two days ago…but didn’t have a wifi connection at the time).
Today I arrived in Amsterdam. After an unnecessarily long bus ride through Belgium (seriously, Eurolines? Two hours late?), a rather embarrassing train ride to Amsterdam Centraal Station (apparently when the train goes forward, you should hold on to something so you don’t fall over with your pack on) and a weary walk in the dark through the lively streets of the city to arrive at my host’s home. After a brief chat and her departure to bed, I sit here with Leif the cat and ponder.
“What am I doing?” The question has run through my mind frequently as I’ve stared out the windows of planes and trains and three a.m. taxicabs. “The journey is the destination…” or so the cliché goes, and I repeat it over and over to myself until it begins to sound moderately inspiring.
Through these windows I see places that children have grown up knowing by heart, though they are foreign to me. Each time the train screeches to a halt, we have arrived in a small city or village that someone calls home.
Home. The concept is beautiful to me, not having one and all. I know that my family loves me, my friends put up with me and care about me, and I know I am always welcome to be with them. I know certain places to be familiar; I know some cities and country roads like the back of my hand. But I don’t have a home. And I’m not sure I’ve ever felt a sense of home in any place over the course of my life.
What’s a girl without a home to do? If you know, please enlighten me. For now, as I travel through places previously unknown to me, I will bask in the glorious comfort of a decent place to sleep at night. I will savor every luxurious moment a hot shower brings. I will enjoy the beautiful company of strangers—some who become friends, some who I’ll never speak to again. I will sip my coffee slowly in the cafe so I can sit there just a little bit longer, because it is a lovely place to be.