There’s No Place Like…
I lay in bed.
I have done that a lot in the week since I got back.
Why did I never realize my bed was the most comfortable thing in the world? Took six weeks of minuscule thin mattresses on top of hard plywood frames to realize that.
My room is winter-grey. And quiet. No cars honking outside, no dogs barking (except for our elderly yellow lab who now runs the household). No men yelling at each other on the street. (Were they fighting? Were they greeting each other? Who knew.) No mournful call to prayer.
I should get up.
I have things to do.
Laundry, for one. That took me two whole days to attend to.
And I need to find a job… again. This time I promised, swore to God like clench-fisted Scarlet O’Hara, that I would not work in the service industry again. But maybe I will.
There’s snow outside my window.
And my WORN article. A feature, mind you. Need to work on that. But then I remembered Monday was a holiday (thank you, Dalton!) so maybe I could excusably sleep another day.
I roll out of bed. My backpack’s lying on my floor, as though I still might need it for something soon.
I stumble downstairs. Am I still allowed to be jet-lagged?
Denied regular access to both coffee and facebook for six weeks, I now abuse both, microwaving my mug and repeatedly pressing the ‘refresh’ button, waiting for emails which never come.
Which reminds me: I need to download my photos, two memory cards worth. Like putting my backpack away, that will really mean the trip is over.
I know I should, that I’ll enjoy looking at the pictures and all the memories they bring back, but I don’t want to. Yet.
So I snuggle back into my very comfortable bed, the most comfortable bed in the world, and read more of The Corrections.
Despite all the coffee, I fall back asleep.
In the afternoon I actually manage to get dressed and walk to Dervla’s. She is also having trouble readjusting. She also took embarrassingly long to do her laundry.
We walk to Starbucks and get hot chocolates.
“I’ve been checking your blog every day to see if you’ve started writing about our trip yet,” she says.
And my blog. Another responsibility. Writing is yet another activity which will put the trip firmly in the past tense.
I need to start, though. The longer I wait, the more I adjust to being back home, the more India feels like a dream.
Also, where to begin?
I’ll start at the beginning.