Why Can't I Have a Smaller House?" -- Innsbruck, Austria

I'm starting this post from Tian's place on Preyergasse in Zurich, Switzerland. The hard, but comfortable bed on which I lie is covered in a red and orange striped throw that contrasts against the stark white wall to my left. A lumpy, unassuming wall that is as old as the city itself. Tian is downstairs, listening to something that sounds quite serious and scientific, and Boy is an hour late getting back to me from his visit to a nearby wine shop. 

A shop that offered free tastings today. 

No wonder he's so late. I guess I can't expect him to be timely where wine is concerned. But still. This is a lot of late. And I'm beginning to worry. Fuck, I wish I could reach him on his phone. We are never, ever traveling together again without both of us having working phones. Either that, or I need to find a strain of marijuana that works at calming down my top-notch worst scenario imagination. Either that, or buy a ukulele so that I can self-soothe with Jack Johnson.

I'm in the throes of emotional breakdown. And it's not just because my boy is an hour late. 

When the two of us were wandering York a few weeks ago (but feels like forever ago), we strolled into an old church. I picked a pew and sat in awed anger of the decadence, and Boy approached the pulpit and read the Bible's open page. 

"It's one of my favorite passages," Boy mentioned as we left the church. "Colossians 2:10 -- "And in Him, you have been made complete."" 

"Wow, I really don't like that," I made zero effort to mask my distaste. "I don't think I like that at all...'In HIM, you have been made complete,'" I chewed on the verse and spit it out. 

"What don't you like about it?" Boy responded with equanimity. 

"I'm at a place in life where I don't want anything to do with religion or Jesus. To me, that verse implies that I can't be complete on my own. That I need me some Jesus to be whole. And I believe... umm... so, let's just compare me to a house. Yeah, let's use a house for this analogy. So, I'm a house --"

"You're a house." 

"I'm a house. A massive one. A castle, really. Like the one we just saw in Salzburg. And my castle is full of rooms. Romantic rooms with balconies and climbing roses, artsy rooms with paint splattered everywhere, libraries full of leather books and candles, kitchens with cauldrons and giant wheels of cheese, dungeons where I try to lock up the monsters of my memory. Monsters that are also part of my house. Part of me. Some of my rooms are used frequently and some rooms just... collect dust. Maybe I've lost the key to the lock on some of the doors, or maybe something terrible happened in a room long ago, and I don't want to go inside. Or maybe I've made the conscious decision that this room doesn't serve me in this moment. But that doesn't mean I'm not a whole house."

And maybe that's why now I feel like I'm in the throes of an emotional breakdown. Because even though I know I'm whole, my house feels unused. So many of the rooms I love have become derelict, quietly collecting dust at the end of a forgotten hallway.

I don't know if I'm ready to see what a mess they've become... I don't want to face the dust, the cobwebs, the smell of neglect.

I haven't practiced yoga since March. Yoga was one of my most cherished rooms -- light and open and full of joyful energy. But after my injury this spring, the door slammed shut and I haven't opened it since.  

I could open it. My knee is healed enough that I could safely practice certain asanas... in fact, it would be beneficial for my knee to practice certain asanas. But I don't. Why? 

Because I'm too afraid to open the door and see how the room has fallen into disrepair.  

The door to my massage room has been closed for months. 

I was just starting to discover the beauty that room holds for me. It feels so unfair that this door shut -- especially as it was a complicated door to pry open in the first place. Massage carries the comforting memory of my mother, rubbing my feet and my back before bed. And it carries the memory of the three times I was molested while receiving massages from people who said they were professional therapists. 

I was facing my monsters. I was holding the door open so that they could walk out of my house. 

And now the door is shut again. And I don't know what's still inside. 

I haven't painted in months. I haven't been in a place long enough to relax, slow down and mediate with my brush.

My travel door burst wide open. My writing door is about half-way. 

Sometimes I wish I had a smaller house. 

I have moments (like now) where I feel such despair when I think about how my rooms are collecting dust. Moments where I feel the weight of the entire, dilapidated house sinking into my shamed shoulders. And instead of opening up a door and cleaning out a dusty room, I choose a mindless activity that can help me forget how unlived in my house really is. I read a trashy novel, watch a trashy tv show, cook another risotto. 

And I slump and suffocate under the weight of abandoned dreams. I suffocate until I break down. 

Like now. 

Why can't I have a smaller house? Either that, or why can't I be less afraid? 

Our relatively cheap Flixbus departed Salzburg bound for Innsbruck at 10:30 on the 23rd of August. Boy and I had decided to pit-stop in Innsbruck because it was a halfway town between Salzburg and Zurich. And the pictures on Google Images made it look like a pleasant sort of place -- what with that beautiful, oddly colored river coursing through it and the jagged Alps surrounding it. And we'd found a jovial Italian named Enzo to stay with. An Italian whose couchsurfing profile said he loved chocolate, candies and that his current mission was, "Quit, don't quit? Noodles, don't noodles?" 

Boy and I arrived at around five, and were let into Enzo's apartment by his next door neighbor and best friend, Fabio. 

Everyone should have a next door neighbor and best friend named Fabio. 

Enzo's home was nearly as tiny as Jakub's, and just as unique. License plates from his travels all over the world covered the walls, there were brilliant works of art in the bathroom, instructing the user how to properly use the facilities, and world maps all over the place. Boy and I went for a walk while waiting for Enzo to return, and after .001 seconds of consideration, decided that our random pit stop in Innsbruck had been a marvelous idea.

Enzo returned from playing football (the European kind) around 8:30 (having scored a goal for each of us), and we sat down to drink a bottle of red wine, nibble on some chocolate and get to know each other. Boy shared his story about living in Pakistan, I talked about traveling through Morocco, and Enzo told the many colorful stories behind his license plates.

"I have some good news!" our host announced as the night grew long and the bottle grew empty. "I am sleeping at my girlfriend's apartment tonight, so you can stay here alone."

"Wow, are you sure?" I asked. "I mean, we've stayed in much smaller than this before and we're totally fine with sleeping on the couch."

"Yeah, it's better for me. My work is close to her place. So no problem. I'll see you tomorrow around... six?"

And with that, Enzo left us his apartment.

We lazed around the next morning, happy to be on our own schedule and in our own (sort of) space. Then we packed our daybag, slipped on our sandals, and stepped into the sunny day.

Another couchsurfing host had contacted us just a couple of days before our arrival in Innsbruck, letting us know that if we hadn't already found a host, we'd be welcome to stay with him. His "About Me" section said he was "an alien, I'm a legal alien, I'm a Dutchman living in Innsbruck." He liked Flight of the Conchords, Anchorman and Woody Allen.

We'll get along just fine. 

So even though we'd already found Enzo to host us, we decided to meet Niek for coffee and cake in an Old Town square near the Golden Dachl.

Niek was great. He was so great that we decided to meet up again that night in his home to share a bottle of wine. 

After wine with Niek (during which Boy freaked out about Niek's hammock chair and I admired his selection of sad music), we returned to Enzo's flat, where our host awaited us with a box of pizza dough flour.

Boy kneaded the dough, I chopped the mozzarella, and Enzo discussed Boy's potential marriage to his divorced mother.

"You have good hands," Enzo joked. "My mother will like that."

"Should I leave?" I laughed and brandished my mozzarella knife.

Fabio and his girlfriend joined us later on, and we all sat on the patio, eating and drinking and talking about the Adventures of Fabio and Enzo.

Our bus to Zurich didn't leave until four thirty the next day, so we had the entire morning and afternoon to soak in the splendor of the Austrian Alps.

Also, to conquer Enzo's tandem bicycle.

Of course Enzo has a tandem bicycle. 

And because we liked Niek so very much, we met with him yet again. He gave me the most thoughtful gift of some of his lovely sad music (I was unbelievably touched) and then led us up a hill to a cafe with a view. Where we chatted for hours like we'd known each other for years.

Boy and I had to rush to catch our black Helloë bus to Zurich, but we managed to rush through the doors just in time. Boy's face was dripping with sweat and flushed with adventure.

My face was dripping with sweat and brows furrowed with thoughts of, "how could we have planned that better?"

But it's okay to not plan, Bourget. It's okay to rush to bus stops. It's even okay to miss the bus. Maybe if you miss more buses, you'll be forced to step outside of your comfort zone and discover rooms you didn't know you had.