I'm starting this post from the park near the bus station in Chambery, France. A tall man in a teal shirt kicks a tennis ball for his collie with a purple collar to fetch. A man with a stellar mustache and a fedora sits on a bench to my left, chatting on the phone in French. I understand the odd word here and there, but sadly, French is still quite foreign to me.
Hopefully not for much longer.
I hear the sound of a beginning flutist practicing scales in the building behind me. The fountain, the French, the flute, the collie with a purple collar rushing back and forth.
I feel tremendously alone. There's no one to speak with, no one to cuddle with, no one to have my back.
I felt the absence of Boy this morning as I packed my things into Ellie and left William's flat. Boy and I had become quite the team. After losing several cherished possessions in Iceland, Scotland, and Austria, Boy and I developed a system. I would check the rooms thoroughly and then he would check after me, just to make sure I hadn't missed anything.
Now there's no one to check for what I miss. Gosh, I'm going to lose all my socks.
There's no one to download a backup map on his phone in case mine freezes and shuts off (which it has a habit of doing. I have a dinosaur iPhone). No one to finish my omelet if I accidentally make it too big. No one to get mad at for drinking my latte, 'cos if he wanted one, he should have ordered a latte and not another damn americano. There's no one to drag me down narrow alleys, into wine shops and no one to laugh with about that one time we flooded Maris' bathroom in Inverness.
I'm alone again. It's been so long since I've experienced this kind of loneliness... this isolation... this sense of being the only person who's experiencing my life as a continuation and not just as a couple of days -- like couchsurfing hosts. I'm nervous about how I'll cope. And of course, the first place I choose to travel to on my own is Italy. Where there's a language barrier.
I'm going to miss "us". There's nothing at all wrong with "me", but I'm going to miss "us".
The last days with Boy in Geneva were so painful. I'd brush my teeth and think that his pink toothbrush (with perfect bristles) and my blue toothbrush (with bristles that look like they've been run over by a train seventeen times) won't be in the same ziplock baggie together anymore. It'll be my sad looking, mangled toothbrush and the crest toothpaste hanging out, wondering where the hell the pink fellow went off to. I'd sit on a bus and wonder how I was going to manage bus rides without my Boy's shoulder to slobber on/his lap to flop my legs on/and his gentlemanly self that always checks first to see whether or not the WC is working.
Our host in Geneva was a young man named William. He'd just finished a two year jaunt around Australia, New Zealand, Germany and South America. So he was giving back to the couchsurfing community as much as he could before his flatmates moved in and he started Uni.
His flat was unbelievable. Boy and I had our own room and the living area had a balcony that overlooked downtown Geneva. Our first night we shared a dinner and a bottle of wine on the balcony, discussing vegetarianism, cooking, life on the road and reverse culture shock. Like when William returned to Geneva after his time in Bolivia. And was stunned to realize that you can drink pretty much all the water in Switzerland without getting giardia.
Our energetic host invited us to join him at a friends for a few hours (and a few drinks), but we apologetically informed poor William that we were, en fait, old people, and wouldn't be able to manage an evening out. So William gave us his spare key and headed out for the night.
I brushed my teeth and felt a little empty.
Boy and I headed out into sweltering Switzerland around 10:00 the next day, browsing thrift shops in search of gifts for friends and family. Friends and family he'll be going home to tomorrow.
Does he realize that in leaving, he's taking my home with him? I feel like a turtle. Or maybe a crab. Yeah, crab is better. It isn't at all like I'm not my own person without him, but he's become my safety and my support. And he's going to take that shell back to Colorado tomorrow.
So it'll just be me.
A crab sans shell.
Within the next couple of weeks, I'll probably get to a place wherein I feel comfortable without the shell. When Boy's not around, I'm a better traveler. I pay attention more, because I know I'm not as safe. I'm more responsible. I make eye-contact with strangers because I'm desperate for any kind of connection, and I check bus WC's myself. I do the things that are hard instead of just hiding in the shell.
So these weeks will be challenging as I learn to listen again. As I learn how to keep myself safe and not rely on someone else to be my security.
William took us on a short, easy bicycle ride through Geneva, explaining bits and pieces of the city's history and culture.
"I do this with all my guests," he let us know when we thanked him for the tour.
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| Back in Switzerland = clean water fountains everywhere. |
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| Longest bench in Europe |
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| Boy and William |
We ended the tour with a dip in the river. Boy jumped off a bridge and let the current carry him along. William pronounced that he had become a "proper Geneva man" in doing so.
I did not become a proper Geneva woman. I sat on the banks, soaked up some sun and chatted with another young Swiss girl about her desire to go to Berlin simply to get into an exclusive club.
There are many reasons I choose to visit cities and countries. Clubs will never be one of them.
After another dinner on the balcony, William went out with some friends to a couchsurfing meeting and Boy and I retreated to our room, where we tried to brainstorm some different ways to allow the distance to bring us closer.
"Letters?" Boy asked.
"I wouldn't be in a place long enough to receive them," I stared at my hands and thought about my horrible toothbrush.
"What else?" Boy asked.
"I don't know," I sobbed a little uncontrollably. "I'm really overwhelmed. This is going to be such a lonely time for me. And I'm afraid of what life on the road will be without you there."
Our unsuccessful brainstorming ended and we just held each other.
Eight months is such a long time. And we'll be dealing with sketchy internet and a stupid enormous time difference. I want to have the attitude of "ADVENTURE!" of "We can do anything!" of "Skyping is great and our relationship will be so much stronger!"
But I don't feel any of those things when I think about Boy leaving. I feel exposed and isolated. I don't feel like we'll be stronger for the eight months. I feel like I'll break.
I feel like a crab sans shell on a beautiful beach with seagulls EVERYWHERE.
All I want to do is crawl into the sand and hide.
But this is just a phase. A phase that feels like it'll last interminably, but a phase I know that I'll pass through. I'll find my sense of adventure and security. I'll not crawl into the sand.
Boy left for the airport at seven yesterday morning. We walked in the rain to the bus stop and I kissed him goodbye. The bus slowly pulled away with Boy inside, still staring at me through the rain speckled windows.
And that's it.
I walked back to William's where I cried, slept, cried, showered, cried, packed Ellie, cried, and left to walk to my bus stop, heart nearly as heavy as my bag (Boy used to carry my laptop for me. Now I have to carry my laptop for me).
I downloaded podcasts to listen to on the 12 hour journey I haven't had to download podcasts for months. Because I've always had my loving, patient Boy to torment with questions like, "So... if I find you a castle to live in, would you be willing to forgo cities and move to the countryside? A countryside castle like the one in Wales? Okay, how about a lighthouse?"
It'll be a long eight months, but it doesn't have to be a lonely eight months. It doesn't have to be a miserable eight months. Give yourself time to adjust to being alone, to grieve your lost travel buddy, and then give yourself permission to enjoy the immense freedom of traveling the world alone.
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