I'll be home when I'm sleeping

So I’m back. Sort of. I guess this is one of those circles of hell that clever dude Dante was always mentioning- in this case, that circle is good old Newark International Airport. Look, though, while I would love to complain about the airport, it has afforded me this little cubicle with an outlet to keep my laptop juiced and wi-fi for a paltry amount of money, even for someone who is not gainfully employed. And yeah, I don’t plan to tire of calling myself ‘unemployed’ or of mentioning that I am ‘not gainfully employed’ any time soon.

In order to get to EBF, I have to wait here for six hours. The hilarious thing is that I could jump in a car and get there in less time than this. But the waiting is not really the problem- the jet lag, however, is. I’m sort of jittery right now, as if my body is convinced I am pulling an all-nighter of some kind. And to be perfectly honest, I’ve so lost track of time and schedules that it’s entirely possible that my body is actually correct.

So, really, one should not write in this condition, this condition of being a bit unsteady and just wanting to be home. But that word is purposefully italicized, because that word is now something I use so liberally. In Barcelona, by the second night, I was referring to an apartment we rented as home. In Granada, AL smirked at me when two college students asked us where we were from and I answered, “I’m from San Francisco, and he’s from Maine.”

AL asked, “How long do you plan to keep claiming that?” I shrugged. It wasn’t even intentional, and I guess that was exactly his point. So I want to be home right now, but really all that means is that I want to be somewhere for more than a few days. Like maybe a week.

The song this week- it’s sort of self-explanatory. The ab-fab aspect of going to Spain is that I went at such a perfect time in my life that I was thrilled to be there, but now I am admittedly a little excited to be back. Decisions loom in the horizon, logistics to be sorted through, friends and family to visit, and at the end of that, one big adventure waiting to unfurl. So indeed, I Can’t Hardly Wait. Furthermore, like Westerberg bemoans, I just can’t seem to really get to what I would really like to say about Spain yet. I’ll write you a letter tomorrow, or so I hope.