8 months. 5 continents. 16 countries. 20 flights. Too many buses, trains, boats, ferries, rental cars, taxi cabs and tuk tuks to count. Ditto with guest houses, hostels, hotels, lodges, cabins, apartments and houses.
We’ve circumnavigated the globe and, as with many life-altering journeys, finished where we started. Home.
Yet I can’t quite shake the feeling that I am a fish out of water. Everything is simultaneously familiar and foreign. Reverse culture shock is what they call it (whoever “they” are). Perhaps that explains the vague sense of guilt I felt the other day when I dropped a pair of socks in the laundry bin after only one wear – an act that would have been far too decadent when our “washing machine” was the bathroom sink. It’s hard to reconcile living out of a single bag for eight months and then returning to a big house with so much stuff. It’s equally hard to accept that the adventure is over. Continue reading