Early October, the south of France. I lay languidly, rocking from side to side in my hammock, the Mediterranean sun streaking through the dense foliage, a gentle breeze gusting through the vineyards, carrying the smell of fresh figs and the last remnants of late morning mist. I gaze placidly into the rolling hillside, not able to muster the energy to pick up the book that lays at my feet.
They say October is crunch time, test season, the end of the lazy days of summer; not when your life is a C?zanne painting. Indeed, I was living that mid-winter fantasy that we all entertain on the subway, at work, in class as we numbly make our way through the routinized grind of Western, urban life: the faraway island which we cannot attain. Maybe it’s a villa in southern Italy, a beach in Barbados or a caf? in St. Petersburg. The elusive places where we are decidedly not as we stare vacantly into the static of sine waves, J-curves, front page of the Times, Farragut West.
Yes, the grass is always greener … especially when you’re surrounded by endless expanses of it, not to mention pristine forest, lush vines and stunning, vividly crystalline skies. The agenda for this Oct. 5: sit in this hammock, eat some lunch, drink my tea and then meditate on my suffering for 10 hours. Purge my worries, relax, smile and follow the path that I so clearly have in mind. I came here to escape anxiety by forcing myself into relaxation and my personal “happy place,” the one that always flooded my mind as I worked the long shifts in dish pits in high school and pervades my life as I make my way through new jobs and new classes. Just east of Bordeaux (monastery optional) was always that unattainable “if only I wasn’t doing … I would.” Someone else’s Bermuda. Unfettered by fears for safety, career, nourishment or eviction, I finally made my break and was ready to commune with Being. Ah …
Nine o’clock, same evening. Phone booth in monastery courtyard. “Virgin Atlantic operator? Help me, I am in hell.”
“You’re where?” she said.
“Yes, the south of France,” I assured her.
“BACK to D.C.? You realize that’s not the best real estate right now, love.”
“Yes, I am aware. Work your magic and there’s an extra 40 quid and a cheese crumpet in it for you, lady. Whatever it takes.”
Rewind. No, I am not going abroad. Not going to Oxford and no, not committing academic suicide. My mom’s tone eerily reminiscent of the Virgin operator. It wouldn’t make me happy (a suspicion verified earlier this month by angry skies, baked beans on toast, florescently lit pubs and the palpable feel of collective malaise that sticks to every English surface). I feel like what I want is right here, in D.C. and I’m in no rush. Solution? Get on a plane and leave the continent for six weeks anyway.
It was sort of a connect the dots operation. I always wanted to go to Thict Nhat Hahn’s monastery, I had concert tix and friends in Britain, a brother in Amsterdam and hell to raise in eastern Europe. It’s just the in-between time I hadn’t counted on. At a point, I felt like the only option was to cobble it all together and set out on an excursion anyway. My light vacation suddenly acquired a semiotic and cultural weight. My friends and relatives who took this trip in years past set out to break free from the family and “find themselves.” Taking a trip during which I was planning on doing little more than sit on my ass and read was suddenly legitimated in the eyes of skeptics when presented as an epic rite of passage. And maybe I’d find “myself” slinking around some market in Montmartre, right?
We all have moments of weakness. Specifically, I anguish over all that is outside of my realm of control. I often want things I don’t want just to have the option to choose not to choose. I don’t like being boxed in. Sound familiar? People hate being celebrities and sports heroes, but what’s your dream job? I would rather choose not to be a rock star than live what becomes the grinding day-job tedium and stress of being one. That it is just outside of mortal reach, along with that CEO position and State Department post that makes it desirable. Similarly, I fretted over visiting Amsterdam until I had my ticket in hand. Filling in the messy details became a hurried afterthought as I blazed through the trip, looking longingly towards the point that it would be a notch on my belt, and I would write a trite Voices piece about it.
So I lay thrashing myself to sleep against the starlight in my windows and silence in my bunk. No garbage trucks, street hassles or police sirens. I am a lame caricature of urbanity. I want to go home. You say I’m a malcontent, but the grass is currently greener in central D.C. I was right the first time. Yes, mom, I am staying in D.C. for the semester, doing what is important, “Being” where I belong, with my friends. I can exhale for the first time since I left. And of course I didn’t find “myself,” nor did I want to. I’ll save that played-out journey for my mid-life crisis. With any luck, part of me will always be here, and part of me will always be elusive, changing, elsewhere, driving me to experience more and devour as much of life as possible. This round, however, I learned that I don’t like traveling alone, without my loved ones. Sleeping in trains and not eating stresses me out, and baked beans are revolting. No more, no less. Don’t read too much into it.
Oct. 14, Columbus Day. Squished between a Pashtun family, child screaming in ear. I am plotting a return to France from my Isle of Elba. Reconquest slated for next spring, loved one in hand. I stare blithely into my book as the plane turbulently skips across the storm clouds. Still stressed? You bet. But it’s a pleasant ride.
Ian Bourland is a junior in the School of Foreign Service and associate editor of The Georgetown Voice. Like a fine wine, he improves with age.
