A Year Off

by Alexandra Brown

  There was a plus side to all this, though, which is that the entire experience illuminated for me how incredible it was to be engaged in travel. Never before had I ever been so present and engaged as I was on the road. I still vividly remember simple moments of walking down streets and taking in the beauty and uniqueness of the architecture around me, the colors, the people, the feeling in the air, and even simple everyday things like advertisements, street signs, and graffiti. This is a perspective and level of awareness I treasure and work hard to bring forward in my life today.

  MAKING THE MOST OF THE LAST COUPLE MONTHS

  There will come a point on your trip when you pass the “equinox,” and you know the time left is shorter than the time you’ve been away. When the balance has shifted like this, the temptation to start re-engaging with life back home can be strong, but it’s important to remember the remaining weeks you have left are still significant and likely longer than any trip you may take again . . . at least for a while. These tips can help you stay totally engaged and really enjoy what may be some of the sweetest parts of your travels.

  1/ Embrace the Value of Letting Go

  After traveling for a while, you’ll have likely learned how to let go, be present, and simply enjoy. Take note of your newfound ability to do this as an adult who already knows what it’s like to have mounting responsibilities. Use this time to think about how to incorporate this valuable lesson into the life you’ll live back home and maintain this perspective as you move forward.

  2/ Remember Life Is Short

  At this point in your trip, you’ll have a pretty solid sense of what your budget is: how much you’ve spent, what you have left, and your spending patterns. There is no prize for coming home under budget, so this final stretch is a great time to spend what you have, or even give yourself a bit more of a cushion if you can. It’s also the perfect moment to pick up a few gifts for yourself. Having objects and tokens from your journey in your home will be lovely little reminders of memories from the road.

  3/ Consider Travel Buddies

  Invite people to meet you on the road. Having friends and family come and travel with you can help you start to reconnect with life back home without going too deep. It’s also a great way to bring people along on your journey and create some stories together.

  4/ Have a Grand Finale

  Saving one of your “must do” experiences or planning something special for the final weeks of your trip can help keep the energy positive and your mind engaged on the present. Plus, it always feels good to end on a high note!

  Roma!

  Rome, Italy

  ALEXANDRA

  41.9028° N, 12.4964° E

  Rome.

  The ancient city. The city of romance. The city of thieves. The city of food and hectic traffic and espresso bars brimming with people talking loudly and gesturing even more loudly.

  We arrived with a thrumming sense of anticipation. I had been to Rome before but not since I was fourteen, and David had been busy dreaming of Rome for years. We had just shy of three weeks left in our trip, and Rome was one of the last stops. We were staying in Garbatella, an architecturally rich, lesser-known neighborhood on the outskirts of the city center, a budding Brooklyn of sorts in that artists, families, and students found a respite from the city’s din and cost in the winding streets lined with fascist-era apartment buildings and cypress trees straight out of a Dr. Seuss book. We knew little of the neighborhood apart from the fact that it was close enough to the city to be convenient but far enough away to have far cheaper prices.

  We took the metro from the airport, dodging the smiling advances of ill-intended schemers, and I safeguarded our backpacks like a mama bird watching over her nest. When the train doors opened at the Garbatella station, we exited onto the heat of the platform with no real idea as to where we were. After checking our map, we set off. At this point in our journey, we had completely abandoned our commitment to light and nimble packs. With our return home imminent, we had begun accumulating all sorts of unnecessary things to bring back with us. It all started with a few trinkets from Germany—kitchen knives, jazz and pop records from a yard sale, and a set of miniature Riesling tasting glasses—and ended in total ridiculousness. We now carried with us a set of five copper pots, a “must have” Le Creuset soup pot we had found for €1 at a French flea market, four ceramic cups, an olive dish, a set of four ramekins, and a full case of Piemonte wine. These additions to our load resulted in David carrying more than seventy-five pounds on his back as well as a fifty-pound duffel and me carrying a fifty-pound pack and our travel guitar. Sweating, exhausted, and miserable, we slowly made the nearly two-mile walk to our accommodations. Things didn’t improve when we arrived at our destination only to find our host wouldn’t be home for another thirty minutes. Unsure if we had the stamina to carry our stuff much farther, we scanned the quiet residential street for some respite from the afternoon heat. A pretty shabby-looking coffee shop down the road seemed to be the only option. David’s mood was spiraling into the treacherous realm of “hangry,” and my sticky clothes were beginning to suffocate me.

  The coffee shop didn’t seem to have much in the way of anything we wanted. A slow oscillating fan was the only escape from the heat, but it was sadly behind the counter. The food selection was grim: uninviting sandwiches imprisoned in plastic wrap sulked behind smudged glass, and bags of potato chips collected dust on a spinning rack. There were few people in the shop apart from those who appeared to work there. The middle-aged woman behind the counter leaned against the bar, absentmindedly wiping down the espresso machine as she chatted with a man drinking a coffee and smoking a cigarette. In the back were some seedy-looking gambling machines manned by another smoking gentleman. Dropping our bags in the corner, we stretched our backs with a sense of relief and took a seat at one of the small tables outside. Pulling a cigarette out of who knows where, David went up to the counter, lit up with the rest of them, ordered coffee, and begrudgingly selected a sandwich from the case. Nothing disheartened David more than subpar food, especially in Italy.

  We sat and chatted over our coffees. I took a puff of his cigarette, and we tried to rally a bit but with little success. Our coffees were brought over by the man behind the gambling counter, who interrupted our conversation. In clear English he asked, “Are you from America?” We nodded our heads and said, “Yes, coming from San Francisco.” “Huh!” he said with a chuckle and went on to tell us how he drove a bus in Oakland for nearly twenty years and had only recently returned to Rome. His name was Claudio. After some pleasant conversation, we asked if he knew of a nice place where we could get dinner. “If you want a good meal,” he replied in that conspiratorial tone locals embrace when divulging a beloved secret to a new acquaintance, “you go to Paolo’s. I can call him now and tell him you’ll be coming tonight.” With those simple words, our moods instantly lifted. We had the promise of a good meal endorsed by a local. Things were looking up.

  That evening we followed Claudio’s hand-drawn map to Paolo’s restaurant. As we rounded the bend and first laid eyes on its lacquered striped awning and glaring fluorescent lighting, we hesitated for a moment before crossing the threshold. It was a Tuesday night, so the restaurant was fairly quiet. A lone disheveled waiter was bringing a carafe of red wine to one of the tables, and I launched into my practiced Italian greeting, telling him we were friends of Claudio’s and that Paolo should be expecting us. He nodded at the mention of Claudio and seated us. We felt surprisingly nervous, glancing sheepishly at our surroundings while trying to look natural. We were clearly outsiders. The waiter returned with two menus, and I scanned mine to find something a celiac like myself could eat. Sadly, the menu was pasta heavy, and the only options that seemed safe were a side of sautéed chicory and possibly a meatball. I guess I’ll be hungry and frustrated in Rome, I thought. When the waiter returned, I told him I had celiac disease, and he surprised me when, unfazed, he responded, “Si, abbiamo pasta senza glutine.” (Yes, we
have gluten-free pasta.) My cheeks flushed with excitement, and I could not hold back my emotion as I sat there grinning at the waiter. His face revealed a touch of pride, and we were off to a good start. David and I both ordered pasta all’Amatriciana, a signature Roman dish featuring a rich and lightly spicy tomato sauce riddled with crispy nuggets of bacon, and a one-liter carafe of the house red. When our pasta arrived, I felt like the waiter had bestowed a gift upon me. I had yet to order pasta in a restaurant in Italy, and as I took my first bite, I was awash with pure bliss. The pasta was perfectly al dente, and the sauce was decadent yet fresh, each ingredient singing to one another in harmony. I could taste the brightness of the olive oil, the sweetness of the tomatoes, and the savory bite of the bacon. I looked at David, and whether it was the shattering deliciousness of the meal, the three juice glasses of wine I had already drunk, or the seductiveness of the soft evening heat, tears stung the backs of my eyes. When the waiter asked if everything was good, I looked at him with pure joy. “This is the best pasta senza glutine I have ever eaten,” I said. He beamed.

  A moment later a man we presumed to be Paolo emerged from the back of the restaurant. He was stout and sturdy and looked like he might have killed a man or two. He came over to our table, evaluated us, and declared, “You are the friends of Claudio.” We nodded our heads and complimented the food. He nodded again, but this time he revealed a surprising glimpse of tenderness from behind the scruff. We finished our meal, the entire liter of wine, and accidentally left a 50 percent tip. It was bliss.

  We spent the next three days exploring the city, eating well, drinking cheaply, and walking through neighborhoods that danced the line between charming and derelict. Even though David had spent years building up this time in Rome, he did not experience an ounce of disappointment. He was completely enamored and engaged, and his excitement was contagious. Through his awestruck eyes, I saw a city I had known before in an entirely new light. Loud chaotic traffic became a beautiful tangle brimming with characters, as scooters, motorcycles, and small cars aggressively danced with each other. Less-than-savory characters became extra color, and dilapidated buildings became necessary contrasts to ancient masterpieces. Never missing aperitivo (happy hour with free snacks) and rarely spending any time in our apartment, we were charmed by Rome.

  On our second afternoon in the city, we got a message from David’s parents about attending mass at Saint Peter’s Basilica. The service was to be about love, a topic they considered fitting for us. We thought we would enjoy it as a cultural experience, so we set off for the Vatican. I’m not sure if David had ever even seen a photo of the basilica before, because the minute he got a glimpse of the striking structure, he literally yelled “What?!?!” and ran into the middle of a heavily trafficked bridge to get a better view. Eventually making our way closer, we were stunned again, but this time by the gargantuan line of tourists snaking toward the entrance. Realizing that thinking we could make it in for mass was totally naive, I accepted defeat. David preserved his optimism and said, “Look at the priests. They’re all walking quickly in the opposite direction of the line. I bet we could get one of them to take us in! Will you ask?” Aligning ourselves in their path, we let one priest go by, as he looked a bit less than friendly, but then David nudged me and said, “What about that one?” gesturing at an older priest making his way toward us. Something about the man seemed kind. Without hesitation, I approached him, and in broken Italian, asked whether the line in front of the basilica was indeed for mass. He explained the line was simply for people wanting to go into the basilica, mass or no mass, but when he saw our defeated expressions, he perked up and asked, “Do you really want to go to the mass?” We nodded our heads “yes,” and he gestured with his hand and said, “Avanti, avanti.” (Let’s go.) Without question, we followed him, weaving our way through the crowds of tourists. He kept up a surprisingly quick pace, and we stayed close, repeatedly glancing at each other with huge stunned eyes. At first it seemed we were making a beeline for the basilica, but then our priest made a sharp turn left away from the crowds. In under a minute we found ourselves in front of a quiet side entrance, where two young Vatican guards dressed in colorful and traditional uniforms were waiting to check Vatican City passports. We had not known these existed! The priest showed his passport and told the guards, “They’re with me.” The guards nodded, and we were let into what felt like another world: silent, pristine, and holy. After we made our first turn, the priest stopped and with a very subtle hint of excitement, waved his arm around the space, saying “Niente, niente.” (Nothing, nothing.) Standing still for only a moment, I could hear only my own breathing from the pace we had been keeping. All around us was white and clean. I was instantly consumed with a feeling of peace and could not deny we were somewhere sacred. The priest then gave us a look I will never forget. It seemed to say, “I am proud to give you this gift.”

  Within moments of stopping, the priest was rushing again, and we followed him through a back entrance into the sacristy. Everything was a blur as we passed through several rooms and even more guards. Suddenly, the priest opened an unassuming door, and we were in the center of Saint Peter’s Basilica. The beauty was astounding and overwhelming. David was so overcome he had a hard time keeping up and quickly fell behind. The priest led us through the crowds, and I looked back to see David trying to overtake the gap by taking bigger, faster steps. The priest had a quick conversation with a guard, who lifted a large wooden barrier separating the mass area from where the public could freely walk, and the priest escorted us through the opening. He briefly shook our hands, and with a nod and a wink, bid us farewell. We never even learned his name.

  There we were, attending mass at the Vatican with a group of roughly sixty people. As we took our seats and looked up at the pulpit, we realized we were in the presence of the Pope himself. The actual Pope was in front of us! It did not seem possible then, and when we think back on that day, it still doesn’t seem real. The Pope spoke enthusiastically with a gentle yet undeniable authority. We were in awe and could not stop looking around us. Squeezing each other’s hands, we were both overwhelmed by the experience and our great sense of partnership together.

  MAKING YOUR WAY HOME

  We didn’t cope with our imminent homecoming by ignoring it; rather, we acknowledged its approach and made a mutual decision not to focus on it. The fact that we had saved one of our most desired destinations, Italy, for last also helped with our ability to stay in the moment and not get tangled up in all the logistics and worries going back home could have presented. Those last few weeks were some of the sweetest, and we savored each day as deeply as we could.

  For us, there was a sense of exhilaration, a renewed energy to our rhythm, which emerged the closer to our return flight we got. Each day started to feel like the last because, in a way, it was. Before too long, we suddenly realized we had one week to go . . . ONE WEEK TO GO. Even though we had been gone for nearly a year, we would look at each other in wonder and ask, “Where did the time go?” Those last few weeks were truly the sunset of our trip, as golden in the moment as they are in our memories. It was a special time worth savoring.

  Chapter 9

  Adjusting to Reverse Culture Shock

  Based on our own experiences and those of other travelers we know, some level of reverse culture shock is almost unavoidable after being gone for an extended period of time. Perhaps it was our academic and professional backgrounds in studying people, or memories of feeling unsettled upon coming home after a semester abroad in college, but we often found ourselves listening attentively to people’s reentry stories. We heard tales across the spectrum, from very minor bumps in the road home to stories of significant struggle as people felt like foreigners in their own cities and towns.

  Your homecoming could be simple or it could be difficult and lonely. For everyone else we know who traveled extensively, returning home was a surreal experience and more jarring than leaving had been. In this chapter, we share our expe
riences of coming home so that they can help you consider what homecoming may be like for you. We also provide some tips from experiences we had after returning home, as well as tips from other people we met on our travels, in hopes of helping you prepare for and manage any potential culture shock you may encounter.

  Do You Have Exact Change?

  New York City

  DAVID

  40.7128° N, 74.0060° W

  Alexandra and I woke up heavy on our first day back in the U.S. Exchanging a few words, we went into the dining room of her grandmother’s apartment in Manhattan to say good morning. Quickly the conversation moved from “How did you sleep?” to the family news before nestling into some less-than-pleasant health-related changes she had endured since our departure. Our trip did not come up, which was just as well, as my mood would have caused any story to fall flat.

  Coffee! We need coffee. The realization snuck up on me like a flash and brought with it the hope that I had found the source of the dark cloud. Wanting to leave immediately for the closest coffee bar, but also wanting to be polite, I committed to another hour, which served to be unwise. After coming from Italy, where coffee is sold for a Euro on practically every corner, I was surprised how far we needed to walk to find an espresso. I expected to stumble upon a cool new-wave coffee bar, but a French-inspired chain store was the only thing within walking distance. As Google maps guided us through the Upper East Side, I was irritated both by everything around me as well as with myself for being so irritable. What is wrong with you today? Time to get over whatever this is and enjoy a lovely sunny fall day in New York, I thought to myself. Despite my best efforts, the vicious cycle continued; the cleanliness of our surroundings felt stuck-up, faces lacked depth, and everything felt superficial. I was officially miserable.