Escaping Suburbia

I woke up early the day of my planned road trip out of Suburbia with Jason.

Perhaps my body clock had yet to adjust … perhaps I was excited to get out of my house, to get out of my county, to get out and SEE something I hadn’t seen in … well, years.

I jumped in my car around 8:30 a.m., eager to get the day started. Ten minutes later, I was at Jason’s front door, and soon after that, he and I were headed North on I-270 towards the Appalachian Mountains.

We drove along the highway, my eyes fighting with my mind — all I wanted to do was look outside the window (not at the road) as the tall trees still brandishing green leaves flitted out my window.

In America, signs that are brown indicate a point of interest. We passed a few.

“Should we go take a peak?” I asked, turning my head slightly to my tattooed friend in the passenger seat.

“Yeah, what the hell,” he responded.

So, we did.

For about 30 minutes we drove in circles, looking for a pre-Civil War farm house somewhere off the highway. We wound around mountain roads, passed by little bubbling brooks, skirted by small cliffs of rock, until we finally hit our destination.

What to do now?

There was no coffee shop to sit and marvel at its beauty.

In fact, it wasn’t all that beautiful. There, on a slight hill stood an old white barn house. In it’s day, I am sure it was something that evoked awe. But, now, we stood at a chain link fence, which gave way to a field of grass, which eventually gave way to the house.

He and I walked around the area for a few minutes, reading about the land’s history, and then hopped back in the car and on to Harpers Ferry, a national park just over Maryland’s border in West Virginia.

It felt immensly satisfying to be out of my home state. To be exploring something.

Harpers Ferry is rich with history, and to this day, people visiting the park can feel that history pulsating in the old town. The area has played a large part in America’s short story. It was the site of the arrival of the first successful US railroad. It was the site where John Brown attacked slavery. It was the site that witnessed the largest surrender of Federal troops during the Civil War. And more.

That day, it was the site where I came to terms with being home.

Sitting outside at a restaurant with Jason, overlooking the mountains and the Potomac River, I started to feel better. Not great. But better.

When he pulled out a free ticket to the Frederick County Fair, my eyes lit up.

Probably the first time they had sparkled since returning to America.

A fair.

I was eager to head to the fair grounds and get in touch with my inner child.

We arrived and immediately, I was greeted with the smells of the fair — the funnel cakes and farm animals.

Growing up, I used to love the fair. In Montgomery County, there is a huge agricultural fair each year, and as a child and teen, I would go and have the time of my life.

This time was different.

Instantly, my mind flicked back to being at the feria in Barbate.

This was no feria.

We walked around for a little bit, stopping to pet the farm animals, checking out the cow auction, and then we headed back to our home turf.

Back in my bed that night, I closed my eyes and quickly found myself relishing the memories of my trip. Not the escape from Suburbia that day, but the real trip.

I wasn’t healed … yet.

Adjusting to American life

“D, what’s wrong? You don’t look too good,” Mom said to me as we sat at the kitchen table following dinner a few days after my arrival.

She was right. I wasn’t good. I was far from it.

The day before, my mom, dad and I drove up to Pennsylvania so I could say “goodbye” to my grandmother at the cemetery. Sitting on the freshly dug up ground, I buried my head in my knees and sobbed. And talked to Grandma. I thanked her for supporting me, for being the wonderful and amazing woman she was. I pulled the stone I had grabbed from the sea the day she passed away and tucked it into the dirt.

Then, after wiping the tears from my eyes, I pulled myself together and went to see Papa. Which, of course, caused more tears to flow. Then, after spending some time sitting outside with him and crying, met up with my cousins, aunt and uncle for lunch.

The next day was more uplifting. My niece and her mom came down to visit.

“I have all of your postcards,” the six-year-old informed me. “They are hanging up!”

In Europe, there were very few people that got postcards, but nearly every major place I went, I purchased a colorful little card to send to my niece back in Maryland. Originally, I had been sending her photos of castles because she is my little princess, but one day she told my parents to please tell me I could send her other cards too, so then I changed it up.

After spending the day with her, Mom, Dad and I sat down to dinner. And I froze.

“No, I am not OK,” I said, looking at my plate, then to the clock, then to my parents.

5:30 p.m. What the hell am I going to do for the rest of the day?

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know, I just … I just …” I trailed off.

What was I trying to say?

Help me. I can’t be here. I can’t sit at this table and look at the clock and see that it is only 5:30 p.m. and I have the entire evening in front of me. And, then, after that, I have tomorrow morning. And tomorrow afternoon. And tomorrow night. And then …

My heart raced. Anxiety took over.

“I have to go,” I said, getting up from the table, grabbing my car keys and my purse. “I need to get out of here.”

“Where are you going?” asked my Dad.

“I have no idea. But, somewhere.”

I got into the car and burst into tears.

Was this my life now? A series of minutes ticking by that held nothing to keep my attention? There was no looking forward to anything. There was nothing to look in awe at anything anymore. My life, which had been so exciting, so passionate … so perfect, now held nothing.

Ah, re-entry depression.

I drove around my town, trying to sort my thoughts. Trying desperately to get out of my funk.

I walked into Target. And, nearly immediately, walked back out. Pre-travel, whenever I needed to get out of the house, I would drive to Target or a book store and just wander, letting my mind go blank as the marketing gods of products tried to appeal to something inside of me.

It wasn’t happening this time.

Instead, the two-story monstrosity creeped me out. Made me even more anxious. Reminded me that even if I wanted something, I couldn’t buy it since I was unemployed and had a finite amount of money left to my name.

“Megan,” I said into my phone trying to keep the panic out of my voice as I sat in my car, in the parking lot, “I think you need to come and meet me at Unce Julios. I think I need a drink. And company.”

Bless her heart, within 30 minutes my friend was sitting with me on the patio as I sipped on a Dos Equis and she enjoyed a swirl margarita.

Slowly, the ugly feelings running through me began to dissipate and I began to feel more calm. And slightly buzzed.

We went to another bar after Uncle Julios, a bar where a friend of mine from high school works. He and I had just gotten back in touch the week before I left for Europe, so seeing him was a nice reunion.

That night, as he and I sat at the bar, we made plans to get me out of town for a day trip.

“I just feel like I have to do something,” I explained to him. “I have to go somewhere. I can’t just sit here and think about what the hell I am going to do with my life now.”

“Let’s go,” he said.

Then, our day trip to the mountains began to take shape.

On being home

Once we got in the car at Dulles, I was finally able to breathe … sort of.

I wistfully looked out the window as trees whizzed by, comforted to be in the car with my parents, but not sure of anything else.

What happens now? Where do I go? What do I do?

“Your first meal back home! What do you want?” Mom asked me, rubbing my arm.

I quickly did a rundown in my head of the food I ate while traveling and the food I missed most — chips and salsa.

“Mexican,” I moaned. “I miss Mexican.”

We crept along in the late afternoon rush hour traffic on the Washington Beltway for more than an hour before we finally got off the highway and back into familiar turf.

Rockville, Maryland. Was this home?

And then, Chipotle.

I ordered my favorite dish — chicken fajita bowl, and chips and salsa and sat with it in front of me. I put a fork full of food into my mouth.

It tasted awful. I don’t remember Chipotle being awful, but it was.

Together, Mom, Dad and I sat at the table in the quick service restaurant talking.

But, after a few minutes, I was exhausted. Words didn’t want to come out. I just wanted to not talk. To not do anything.

We drove home, the same familiar streets I had grown up driving, but that afternoon, they were different. It was as if I was looking at those roads for the first time.

Oh god, I don’t want to be here.

And then the second wave of panic in a few hours hit me.

What was I going to do?

The only thing I knew I had to do that evening was take my car and drive to my friend, Megan’s, house. She had been fostering my two cats since February and I owed the little pets a visit.

I grabbed my keys and got into the car.

And froze.

Instantly, I thought back to the last time I had been behind the wheel, navigating the rough and tumble back roads of Romania. And now, there I was, back in Maryland, and suddenly nervous to pull out of my driveway.

I pushed aside the images of horse-drawn carts, children and dogs wandering the streets next to their little huts, and pulled out onto my road.

There is something to be said about the comfort of family and friends. When I was with my parents that day, they helped wash away my anxiety. When I was with Megan that evening, again, I felt better. But it was the other times, when I was alone, I would find myself flustered. Not sure of anything, uneasy … longing to be back on the road. Longing for just one more moment of my former life as a traveler.

For the next few days, I walked around like a newborn. My eyes grew wide and my heart pounded with every “new” experience I had — walking into Target, browsing the racks at the shopping mall, getting gas from a gas station.

It was different for me. I quickly would get overwhelmed and ask to leave places that once had been so easy, so mindless to be in.

The first few days were hard … but they became even harder as I slowly reacclimated to life in Amerca.

The toils of re-entry

I clutched my navy blue American passport in my hand, along with my customs declaration, as the United flight I was on braked hard as the wheels hit the runway.

America.

My heart began to race. Even faster than it had raced the entire 10 hour flight back to Washington, DC from Frankfurt.

I hadn’t slept on the plane for more than an hour. I watched sadly as the flight tracker passed over Europe, the Atlantic, Canada. And when we finally were over American soil, I had to lift my shade and look out at the ground passing quickly below me.

Shade of greens and browns, laid out like a patchwork quilt in bad colors drifted underneath me.

America.

A wave of thoughts began to scramble around in my head as my 200-day journey began to wrap. As I looked out the window, there was no rush of pride to be back in my country. There was no rush of excitement to see the farms on the ground. There was just … panic.

Turn this plane around, immediately. I don’t want to do this.

When the plane pulled into the gate at Dulles, I could feel my face go white.

Back back back. America.

I closed my eyes, letting the memories from my time abroad rush over me one last time on my trip, then I grabbed my bag and exited the plane.

I followed the throngs of people to the “mobile lounge” that takes passengers from the international gates to customs.

I was deafened with the sounds around me.

Phones ringing. Conversations into handsets, Blackberrys, iPhones.

“Yeah, I will e-mail you in a minute.” “I just landed, am looking at my inbox now.” “It was a long flight, I will be to the office soon.”

Oh. My. God. What are these people doing? Had I been one of those people before my trip?

I sat and stared, thinking there was no way in the world after leaving Europe I would want to tarnish the memories by picking up a phone and talking Real Life. In fact, the last thing I would have wanted to do was look at e-mails, talk shop. I wanted to savor every minute detail of my time there. The places. The beauty. The people. The LIFE that pulses with such electricity, passion and love that makes nearly every other experience dull in comparison.

America.

Here, work is the life. Here, people don’t stop to sit outside and drink a coffee for an hour. They don’t …

My palms grew sweaty as I walked towards customs. The chorus of cell phones ringing, the chatter of people talking into them … I began to get dizzy. I began to feel like I was in a movie and the camera was slowly spinning in circles around me as I grew faint.

Breathe, D. Breathe.

I stood. Spinning. Spinning. Spinning. Taking deep breaths as the panic began to set in to my body.

America.

I walked up to the customs official and smiled the best I could as he thumbed through my passport, looked at my declaration card.

“Well, ma’am, you certainly have done a lot of traveling,” he remarked. “What on earth kind of job do you have?”

“I don’t,” I said shakily, trying to stand straight, imagining my parents waiting for me upstairs, forcing the thought of my travels being over out of my jumlbed mind. “I mean, I write, but it wasn’t my job.”

“You are very lucky,” he said, smiling, stamping and handing my back my most treasured posession.

Re-entry complete.

I stood at the luggage carousel, anxiously tapping my foot, waiting for my brown backpack to swing around.

I used to hate that backpack. I would long for the days when I didn’t have to strap it onto me, carry it, walk up stairs with it. But now, seeing it filled me with such an overwhelming feeling of love. That brown backpack came to symbolize my journey. It had been with me all over the world, and now, it was time for it to retire.

I snatched it up quickly and strapped it to my back. For the last time.

Quickly, I made my way upstairs to the restaurant where I was going to meet my parents — the same place we said goodbye in March, the same place we met for dinner a year earlier when I told them of my plans to travel.

I looked around at everyone in the ticketing area.

I wanted to yell. To scream. To tell everyone the reason, at that moment, tears were falling from my eyes was because I had just arrived back to America after the Trip of a Lifetime.

Instead, I continued walking, scanning the faces of people nearby for my parents.

Then, there they were. Sitting down next to a window.

My Mom and Dad.

They saw me at the same moment, standing up and smiling.

And, then I couldn’t see. Tears clouded my vision. I felt their arms around me and just let go, sobbing in their arms.

“Welcome home, D,” they said through similar tears and sobs.

“Hi,” I cried, clutching tighter to them, wanting whatever it was I was feeling — sadness for missing Grandma, sadness my trip was over, joy to see the people I loved — to evaporate into thin air.

Dad grabbed my backpack and together, he, Mom and I, walked out into America.

‘Twas the night before home

September 15, 2010

I am at Frankfurt Main. I left Croatia two days after Grandma passed away. It took the entire day to get to Frankfurt — shuttle to Zadar Airport, delayed RyanAir flight, shuttle from FHN to the main airport.

And, it is my official last night of my trip. Tomorrow, I head home.

But, it’s not really my home. Yes, I grew up in that house. The room my bed is in was my old room. But, it’s not the place I live. I don’t have that anymore.

For the past six months, the place I lived was Europe. Every five or so days, I had a new home. And, I was OK with that. But now, there is no destination. No plan. I head back to Maryland and then ??

The past six months I have breathed with more passion, more life, move love than I have ever done before. I have learned more about me, learned to like more — more than I have ever before.

The conclusion of my trip is bittersweet. I come home under the saddest of times for me, but am so excited to take the next step. Yes, I would have liked to stay in Europe longer. Yes, I would have liked to go to Spain. But, the beauty of travel is it will ALWAYS be there. I can be 30, I can be 31, I can be 50 … and Spain will still be there. Europe will still be there.

When I started this adventure, I wrote about how my life was changed because of someone I met, but have come to realize I was wrong.

Thanks to Katie.

Her last night in Zadar, she and I spent talking about our past. And I told her about T and showed her the entry I had written about him.

“You give him too much credit,” she said. “He isn’t responsible for this trip. YOU made the decision. YOU took the trip. YOU wanted to take the trip. T had nothing to do with it. This was about YOU all along.”

And you know what?

She’s right.



Sleeping in airports — part two

I knew spending the night at Frankfurt’s airport was likely my only option. I couldn’t be bothered with the logistics of getting into town, finding a hostel or hotel, getting back to the airport … it just was not something I had any desire to put myself through.

I was so close to being home.

I wandered through the terminal, eyeing possible places to sleep. In the middle of the terminal was a large area of leather lounge chairs, each one filled with the body of a sleeping or near-sleeping soon-to-be passenger.

I hit the Samsung stand (thank you sleepinginairports.com for the advice) to check my e-mail. For free. Then, I took myself to dinner.

For two hours, I sat in the restaurant, eating slowly, drinking slowly, wishing for 10 a.m. and to be sitting on my flight back to America. Not because I had any desire to go back to America — I didn’t — but because all I wanted was to see my mom and dad.

A wave of exhaustion hit me.

I would pay good money to sleep in a posh hotel bed.

Across the terminal was an airport hotel, and I grabbed my belongings and walked over there to see if there were any rooms.

Entierly sold-out. Damn.

I walked back to the terminal and began to do my own interpretation of Goldilocks.

First, I parked myself in a lounge chair. I grabbed my black scarf and draped it over my eyes to block out the bright florescent lights.

Nope.Too public.

Then, I went and laid down on the cold tile floor.

Nope. Too loud.

Then, I wandered down the terminal to a hall in the shopping area with a few metal benches.

There was only one free bench. The others were occupied with people who were sleeping already.

I had ditched most of my belongings in Trogir, so the towel I had used the first time in Belgium’s airport was no longer in my bag.

Hmmm.

I grabbed my sundress I had purchased in Bulgaria and threw it over me, resting my head of my not-so-comfortable messenger bag.

It was hard to sleep there. It was painful. It was cold. But, it was where I decided to pass out.

My mind took me home … filling me with images of happy and sad and fear.
Happy to be home. Sad for my loss. Fear of being back in America.

The next morning, I was up at 5 a.m. Starbucks had just opened. I grabbed a coffee and a snack and sat there for an hour, just staring into space.

Still feeling numb. Still feeling sad. Still feeling like a zombie.

Then, I went to go get breakfast a few hours later.

Airports in Europe aren’t like airports in America. Typically, the departure screens don’t tell you what gate your flight leaves from until two hours before. I lucked out. And, three hours before my flight was leaving, the gate appeared on the screen.

Overjoyed, I quickly cleared passport control and took over a cushioned bench and passed  out for an hour.

When they made the announcement it was time to board the flight back to America, it hit me.

D, your trip is over. You are going home.

The slow return to America

I arrived to the Zadar airport way too early for my liking.

“This is the bus you have to take if you want to get there in time for your flight,” the receptionst at the hostel informed me.

It got me there more than three hours before my flight.

Maybe there will be something to do, I considered.

Right.

Zadar’s airport is tiny. Two gates. Two restaurants. One Duty Free store. Two little shops outside of security selling overpriced Croatian goods.

I ate, even though I still had no appetite. I wandered through Duty Free, even though I wanted nothing. I sat at the bar and paid an exuberant amount for a tiny bottle of water. I sat in a wicker chair staring into space, listening to “Sideways” for hours.

Finally, the flight boarded.

On the airplane, I sat with my head pressed against the window, tears dripping down my cheeks, as I watched Croatia disappear into the distance.

It’s over, D.

Arriving in Frankfurt, a wave of cold smacked me in the face. After spending the summer in ridiculously hot climates, Frankfurt was chilly, cloudy and about 20 degrees cooler.

RyanAir doesn’t fly into Frankfurt Main, it flies into the other Frankfurt airport, two hours outside of the city. (I have no idea how it can even be called a Frankfurt aiport).

I caught the shuttle bus, eyes glued to the gorgeous green German countryside, still listening to my song.

Today is Grandma’s funeral.

In my mind, I could see everyone standing outside in the rolling Pennsylvania hills. I could hear my blog post being read to the family and friends that had gathered there. I could feel their grief, their loss, as I sat on the bus, alone.

And once again, I cried.

I arrived to the aiport as it was getting dark, around 7:30 p.m. I only had 15 hours to waist at the airport.

The days after death

“These feelings won’t go away … they’ve been knocking me sideways …”

For the two days after Grandma died, I walked around in a haze. Numb. Listening to the same song on repeat for 12 hours and not once getting sick of it, not once singing along. It was just background to my grief.

“There’s no words to describe it, in French or in English …”

I alternated between tears and silence. I had never felt so alone. So sad. So empty.

There was no one in Trogir.

I talked to my mom, messaged some friends, but even with their kind words, their love and support, they couldn’t erase the fact that I had no one to sit with me, to hold me, to tell me it was OK.

The first night was the hardest. After I wrote my last entry, I sent it to my mom to have her print it out and place with Grandma in her final resting place.

An hour later, I got an e-mail from Mom, reminding me once again how proud Grandma was of me, how much she liked what I had written and one little piece of information: She had asked Grandma to be my guardian angel and Grandma had nodded in agreement.

Now, I am not a believer in much. Never have been, likely never will. BUT, those words, aside from causing me to break into a fresh bout of sobs, also caused me to feel something I desperately needed when I was thousands of miles from home, from family, from hugs — comfort.

That night, I talked to Grandma. And, she told me she was OK. She placed her arms around me as I tucked the covers under my neck and hugged me.
Yes, I went to sleep with a tear-soaked face, but I also went to sleep feeling more at peace.

I went through a multitude of emotions in the next two days.

Sadness. Loneliness. Anger.

I’ve never had to mourn without the company of people I loved and who loved me, and being in Trogir, in Croatia, thousands and thousands of miles from home, was a test for me.

What do you do? How do you cope? How can you escape the myriad of thoughts running through your mind?

My homecoming wasn’t going to be happy. It was laden with grief. With loss.
Like a zombie, I walked through town, listening to “Sideways” on repeat for hours. I ate dinner. I sat outside. I was a robot, going through the motions. I wasn’t hungry. I wasn’t thirsty. And yet, I made myself eat. I made myself drink. I made myself keep moving.

I decided the next day I would head back to Zadar, spend the night there and then get a bus to the airport the following day.

On the morning I was departing Trogir, I wandered the town, looking for a Murano glass ring. I needed a quest to take my mind off of the sadness that was clouding every inch of me.

Then, I took the bus (without incident) back to Zadar.

“Well, diamonds they fade … and flowers they bloom … but I’m telling you, these feelings won’t go away … they’ve been knocking me sideways … I keep thinking in a moment that time will take them away … but these feelings won’t go away.”

The entire bus ride, the same song played on repeat.

I returned to Zadar, sat outside at a cafe on my last night of living in Europe. There was no ‘this is my unofficial last night in Europe’ night out. There was no ‘end of trip’ party. It came, and it went. I sat at the outdoor cafe, by myself, with some red wine.

Still numb. Still sad. Still a walking zombie.

The funeral was the day before I arrived home. I was too late, despite my best efforts.

In 48 hours I knew I would be home. Would be seeing my parents for the first time in 6 1/2 months. Would be able to sit in their arms, bury my head in their shoulders … and cry.

On my last official night in Europe, I had to resign myself to falling asleep listening to that same song on repeat, tears wetting my pillow and my heart heavy.

Love, life and loss … while on the road

On September 13, 2010 at 6:15 a.m. EST the world lost an amazing woman, my grandmother. She died in her sleep and in no pain, surrounded by her husband, her son and his wife, and her daughter, my mom.

And I was thousands and thousands of miles away.

I knew it would happen. The possibility of her passing while I was traveling was very real and I was encouraged to still make plans, to take that flight from Dulles to Heathrow on March 7.

Grandma was my biggest supporter.

“Are you sure it is OK for me to go and do this?” I had asked my mom repeatedly.

“Yes,” she would answer calmly. “Grandma wants you to go. She doesn’t want you to miss this opportunity and wait for something to happen here.”

So, I boarded the flight and headed out on my adventure.

At first, everything was wonderful back in Pennsylvania where she and my grandfather had moved only months earlier.

ALS, what she had, is a cruel, cruel disease. It atrophies your muscles, and often times one of the first signs is limping. She had a limp, but we hadn’t noticed anything was wrong at first, nothing that would scream “fatal disease.”

When I moved to Atlanta, I was thrilled to be closer to home and closer to Florida, where my grandparents were living. I went to visit them a handful of times in the year I lived in the South.

And each visit, she got worse. At first she was just slurring her speech (a mini-stroke Mom had suggested), and then it got difficult for her to swallow. And then she started using a cane, and then a walker. By the time Thanksgiving rolled around last year, she had a hard time even with that.

The first e-mails I got hinting that all was not well was in May, when I was in Madrid.

“Grandma has told us she doesn’t want a feeding tube,” Mom had written. The doctors had suggested it as a means to slow down the progression of ALS.

Immediately, I burst into tears, Anthony at my side.

I called my mom and she reasoned with me. This was Grandma’s fight. If she didn’t want to prolong it, she didn’t have to. We had to support it.

I called her a few days later when I was in Merida to wish her a happy Mother’s Day. She talked to me, but ALS had taken away her ability to form words so all I heard was noises.

A few months later, when I was in Bulgaria, Mom e-mailed me to tell me she had stopped eating.

I knew she was in Penn. with her parents, so I hopped on Abby’s Skype and called them.

Through stifled cries, I told her I loved her and she made noises back. I know she was telling me the same.

Then, a few weeks later, I got word she wanted to be transferred to a nursing home.

I knew it wouldn’t be much longer.

In Sarajevo, once I had my iTouch and had installed Skype, I called my mom and for the first time in a long time, we talked. And cried.

I don’t want to be here when this happens.

When we spoke, she told me she had showed Grandma my blog about going topless. Before she had stopped using the Internet, Grandma read my blog regularly and would write to me, telling me in each e-mail how proud she was of me.

This time, Grandma had requested a print out of my blog so she could read it.

Two days later, when I was in Mostar, I got word she had moved to the home and had told everyone via written word she was “ready.”

I did what I had to do — I wrote her an e-mail telling her how much I loved her, how I remembered crying each time her and Papa would leave our house after their annual summer visits, how I loved going to Disney World with them, and above all, how much I loved the support she had given me through my life, and told her in a million ways how much I loved her, and that, if she was ready, I understood.

Two weeks later, on a sunny Monday afternoon when I was in Croatia, her body was finally ready. Her mind had been for a long time.

The day before I had spoken to Mom and she told me things didn’t look well, that she had packed her clothes and was staying until …

I hadn’t known how to react. As she talked, I slid down the old stone wall of the hostel, burying my head in my hands and talking in hushed tones through tears.

“I am so close to being home,” I had sobbed. I changed my flight the week before with the hopes I could make it home to hold her hand and tell her I loved her one last time.

I never got to do that in person.

The night before she left this world, Mom put the phone up to her ear and I told her I loved her.

I HATE ALS. That this disease leaves the mind to KNOW the body is shutting down and there is nothing that can be done about it.

Mom and I had an agreement — no e-mails about anything. If there was news to be delivered, it had to be via the phone.

Sunday night I didn’t sleep. I wasn’t interested. I closed my eyes, but nothing happened.

Monday, I woke up, called my Dad who reported he had heard nothing overnight. I went to the beach. I tried to enjoy it, but nothing felt right.

Today is the day.

I tried to take my mind off of what was going on at home and focus on being in the moment since I only had a few days of being in the moment left.

I boarded the water taxi and headed back to Hostel Trogir and loaded my e-mail.

“Give me a call, Love Dad,” was written in the subject line.

Instantly, I knew. And instantly I began to cry. Painful tears of heartbreak and alone.

“Dad,” I said into my headset, barely audible through my sobs, expecting what he was going to say.

“I’m sorry, D,” he said somberly.

“I was so close …”

“I know.”

He told me what had happened. He reminded me she wanted me there and that I needed to be OK with that since that was what she had wanted.

Then, I called Mom.

“I’m so sorry you are so far away,” she said softly as I sobbed on the other end of the phone. I could barely talk. “D, she was so, so proud of you. This morning, one of the nurses came up to me and asked if I had just gotten back from Europe. She told everyone about what you were doing.”

More tears.

We said our “goodbyes,” our “I love you’s,” and I sat on my bunk bed, tears rolling down my face with reckless abandon.

The hostel owner had given me the dorm to myself, thank goodness, so I could wail softly and not worry about others asking me what was wrong.

Then, I went numb. I started looking for hotels in Zadar for my last night in Croatia. I called Old Town Hostel, where I had stayed a few days prior when my hotel options had failed.

“I just need a bed, I have a flight from Zadar Wednesday morning,” I had explained.

“All we have is a private.”

Perfect. I could grieve and mourn without being around anyone.

Then, I walked into the city.

Expressionless. Like a zombie. I wandered the marble streets while blaring on repeat Citizen Cope’s “Sideways.” I probably listened to it 100 times in the two days this was going on.

I got some blood orange gelatto and smiled politely when the shop owner asked for my number. I sat at a restaurant on the water and ordered garlic bread, tuna salad and a glass of red wine. I picked the corn, tomato and egg out of the salad and struggled to get it down. I ate the garlic bites of the bread. I drank the wine.

I walked back to my hostel and took out my flat iron and straightened my hair, all the while trapped in my thoughts, running like wildfire through my mind. So close. ALS. Pain. Heartache. ALS. Love. Life. Loss. Far from home.

What do you do when you are alone and grieving? When you know no one?

Normal conventions don’t apply. No amount of virtual hugs replaces the real thing. No amount of phone conversations replaces face-to-face contact.

I was alone.

And then, I sat down outside in the late summer night and pulled out my laptop and wrote this story.

Grandma, you will never be forgotten. Your love and support meant and will always mean the world to me. While we may not have you here, I know you are now a star in the sky, looking down on me for the world to see. Mom said you agreed to be my guardian angel. Thank you. My book is for you. You will read it over my shoulders. I love you forever and always.

To learn more about ALS, click here.

Backtracking

I pulled up hostel after hostel, bus schedule after bus schedule, as I sat on my bunk bed in Zadar.

I had wanted to go up the coast to the Istria region of Croatia, to hop some islands before I boarded my flight from Zadar to Frankfurt, and from Frankfurt to Washington, DC.

No hostels. No beds. Too expensive.

What the hell am I going to do?

Staying in Zadar for four more nights was not an option. I didn’t need to go back to Zagreb. I had no desire to go back to Split and party away my remaining days in Europe.

Trogir.

I had wanted to go there, but opted to head to Zadar with Katie instead.
It’s a quick bus ride back.

Could I do three nights there?

It didn’t matter. I was going to.

The next morning, I crept out of the dorm room and walked to the bus stop, headed to the bus station, and boarded the first bus to Trogir.

Zadar and I don’t have the best bus relationship. Not even a year earlier, it was the scene of my bus riding debacle. Now, I have the whole riding-the-bus-thing under control, but on that afternoon, it didn’t matter.

As the bus wound around the inland road, it began to putter a little bit.

Great.

Then, we were pulled over at a little bus stop in the middle of nowhere.
The driver got out and walked around back. My eyes followed him as he returned to the bus, grabbed some sort of tool, and turned off the engine.
Oh, no.

For 15 minutes, we sat there. Finally, the heat began to get to me, so I grabbed my messenger bag and got off, sitting at the glass-encased stop, waiting. And waiting. And waiting.

After 20 more minutes, the driver motioned for us to get back on the bus.

Finally.

He started the engine. Then, a moment later, he turned it off.

There was little communication between him and the passengers. Everyone just got off of the bus.

“What’s going on?” I asked someone who spoke Croatian.

“The bus is broken. We have to wait here 20 minutes and a new bus will come and get us.”

Thank goodness I had no place to be. No flight to catch. An hour later, we were back on the road, in a new (and functioning) ride.

We arrived to Trogir shortly after and I found my way to the hostel, crossing a bridge over the water.

The hostel was cute, tucked into a little street behind a church.
There was nearly no one there.

I got a map, found out how to get to the beach (take a water taxi) and then went to get dinner. And a bottle of wine for later.

That night was a quiet one for me. I sat outside on the terrace messaging with Katie who had arrived safely to London (she hated the flight) and writing. And talking to my mom about my grandma.

“I just don’t know, D. I can’t tell you how long it could be,” she said. “It could be hours, days … I just don’t know.”

I’ll be home soon. It’s OK.

I could visualize my arrival on four days …

A group of people from the hostel parked themselves at the table next to me and we all began to chat. They were headed out. I was headed to bed.

The next day, I took myself to the beach. A gorgeous stretch of coast lined with little cafes and restaurants. I spent the entire day there. It was relaxing. It was beautiful. It was perfect.

What a great place to end my adventure. I’m so happy.

And then, when I got back to the hostel, that’s when everything changed.