Another European city, another suitcase crammed into a cupboard; another room with bare white walls waiting to be blu-tacked with photos. Another transport system to navigate; more bizarre customs and frowns to become familiar with. Another set of colleagues to become comfortable with; more wild nights out to be had; weekends wasted recovering while trying to absorb art or history through an emotional hangover. Highs, simply from being a part of the fairytale cityscape that surrounds you; for being so brave to drop everything and venture there alone. Lows that crash down around you when you need a lazy Sunday in England, where the paper will not cost you the equivalent of £4.80 for a skimpy international version. Many, many moments that whisper, scream, “What the FUCK?! What the fuck is that? What the fuck are people eating? WHAT THE FUCK AM I DOING HERE?!!!”
And when you calm down, you remember why the fuck you left your country, again. It is the endless addiction of the traveller, the daydreamer, always wishing to be somewhere else and impulsive enough to act on the whim. Always missing someone, some place, something. Chasing and living the dreams that everyone else leaves as moving pictures in their minds. Not you; you have to follow them, to be able to say, “When I lived in Madrid…When I flew home from Prague…” And everyone, everyone back ‘home’ is always delighted to see you. You are the adventurer, the story-teller, drinking with your friends in the 600 year old pub, where everyone has remained since you left. You, who have been away so long, away and back, always wanting to settle, to call a place home. And you are desperate to run when you realise you are in that place.