There is any number of reasons why people travel. Some people are running; some people are searching; and some people are just being. When you are traveling – or spending extended time away from home – you may find yourself wondering where you fall on the scale. Depending on my day, or on my week, I see myself as being anywhere along that scale; nothing is constant, least of all my emotions and feelings about being away from my family. I experience constant ups and downs depending on the company I have been keeping, the work I have been doing and the places I’ve been. (And, of course, there is that always enjoyable PMS time… which does nothing but aggravate any emotion I might be experiencing. However, this does lead me to wonder what things would be like without that magnification of emotion. Would things seem dull if I missed out on that monthly surge of swollen senses? For it isn’t always a terrible thing to experience with such force those turbulent feelings…)
At the beginning of January I went on a quick jaunt to London, my first since arriving here in the UK. I had a lovely time; in fact, it was more than just lovely. But there were consequences to this trip. As some of you know, my father has a lot to do with my reason for coming here. While it was something I had wanted to do for many years, it was my brief visit to London about 5 years ago that really solidified my desire to come to the UK. On that visit I experienced one of those terribly cheesy – so-cheesy-it’s-hard-to-admit – moments when I felt I connected with something. To put it plainly – and in short – in London I felt my dad (or thought so much about him I thought I felt him… as much as you can “feel” dead people).
So, five years later I decided to take the trip back to the UK and this time for longer. Decided to do a little soul-searching, if you will – and not just for my own, I suppose. Only Birmingham hasn’t been a repeat of my time in London. It has been good – don’t get me wrong. It has been a wonderful experience; it has been a learning experience in so many ways. But when I got off the train in London, on a Friday afternoon at Marylebone Station, I arrived at home.
I barely spent two days in the city: I had a lovely visit with some family who were there, did a bit of wondering and shopping, and climbed to the top of St. Paul’s Cathedral. But it was enough to remind me why I came to the UK in the first place. It was very difficult coming back to Birmingham; I honestly did not want to. I was upset, wishing I had gone to London, rather than here. I wondered what the heck I was doing in this city.
At this point I have a bit of a better view on the situation. I have been enjoying my job (despite the daily challenges, some of which I could do without); it is a wonderful opportunity I am grateful to have had. But I miss London: I miss the feeling of home (as much as you can experience that away from your proper home), and the feelings that I have that have led me here. There is a heaviness that I feel when in London, something weighing on my heart – one of a comforting weight: the weight of a handmade quilt on a tired body. For now, however, London is something I have to look forward to.
