Savoring Seasons

Seasons come and go, they are fast and they are slow. Sometimes they are distinct, with characteristics and memories all their own, other times they bleed together with slight shifts you accommodate as they come, not realizing just how far, perhaps, you have come.  

I come from a line of gypsies. Really I do. I don't know any of them. I don't know their stories or even their names. I don't even know how far back I'd have to go to find them. My maternal grandmother was Czech, and not just any Czech, but the kind of Czech that has a history of gypsy-dom. I've known that most my life and as a curious wanderer myself, it's resonated deep within me. Or perhaps it's the gypsy blood in my veins that made me the curious wanderer I am. 

I've always dreamt of a life marked by travel and adventure - seeing new things, tasting new foods, and meeting new people. I love the idea of being tied down to nothing but the laces of my shoes. A huge part of me has always wanted to pack my bags and buy a one way plane ticket to my future. Somehow I feel like that would satisfy a part of me that can be quenched by nothing else, launching me into the life I know I'm meant to live.  

A few years back I ventured to Italy on a 12 day excursion that was the closest my wandering mind could come to my youthful ideal of backpacking through Europe. I had a lightweight rolling suitcase instead of a backpack and found hostels to stay in as we (my now roommate and I) went. We ate mostly out of local markets, savoring fruit that left a mark on my soul and blocks of brie that could melt your heart. We like to think we took Italy for all it was worth in those 12 exhausting and equally exhilarating days. It was a trip we knew we would only do exactly that way once in life, and we didn't want to miss the opportunity. 

On one leg of our trip, midway between the hustle of Rome and the seaside escape of the south, we found ourselves seated uncomfortably on a city bus circling Florence looking for our next hostel. As hopeful as we were the travel gods would be in our favor and deliver us to our doorstep, eventually we realized we'd started to see the same bus stops, had no idea how to make this bus get us to where we needed to go, and needed to start over, this time by foot. 

I think it happened on the bus, but somewhere between making the decision to walk the 30 miles to our hostel (ok, probably more like 30 blocks) and filling our very American stomachs at McDonald's (I ate more McDonald's on that trip than the rest of my life combined), we met a girl (or maybe there were 2-I'm tired just thinking about this trip). 

This girl(s) was from the US., about our age, and doing the actual backpacking thing. We made small talk and asked what she was doing in Italy. She told us she was couch surfing. COUCH SURFING in Italy. Apparently there was or is a community of people who open up their homes and couches for travelers to crash on. She spoke of her experience as if it was totally normal and not sketchy at all. She loved meeting new people, living in the culture and not just around it, and it was a heck of a lot cheaper than even the hostels where we were staying. Intrigued and confused, we listened intently, then agreed later - probably over Happy Meals and McFlurrys - that she was insane. 

Now fast forward 5 years, and what have I been doing for the last 6 months? Couch surfing. Ok, more like guest room/whichever-bed-is-available surfing, but I too, have become somewhat of a nomad, my life characterized by suitcases and a portable wardrobe rack, plastic bins full of toiletries and a trunkful of shoes. I've yet to go as far as living with strangers, and don't see that happening any time soon, but surely I've delved deep into the comings and goings, hearts and souls of friends who have opened their homes and become more like family.

As a teenager, when I dreamt of becoming a gypsy, I imagined myself with a backpack, somewhere in Europe meeting locals in bars, perusing museums and reading every last book I could get my hands on in town squares and neighborhood cafes. My bank account would determine the end of my journey, but of course I would live as a starving artist and never have to worry about that. And I would be super skinny, because well, obviously. 

A big part of me also never saw myself actually doing it. 

I'm currently in my 5th and final residence before joining the real world again and moving into my own home. At the beginning, the end felt so far off. But doesn't it always? I knew it would be all too easy to think with only the end in mind, trying to rush through each chapter of the story. But I didn't want to do that. I wanted to enjoy the process, letting even the hard moments be a part of the story. 

It's so easy to rush seasons. To get too wrapped up in where you're going to appreciate where you have been or where you are right now. Like that girl on the bus, like the gypsies with stories I wish I knew, I want to have stories to tell of the journey behind me and be brave enough to immerse myself in what's before me today. And I want to be excited for what's to come too, because life is all of those things. A good life is full of memories, stories, and life lessons. A good life is full of hopes, dreams, and living for something more, all while learning to savor today. 

This really is the best way of living, because you don't actually have to give up anything. You just get to better enjoy everything. So whatever it takes for you to do all of those things, do it. Find a friend, buy some McFlurries and savor every last drip as you sit in the sun, soaking in today, laughing about the past and dreaming of what is to come. Or pop in your N*Sync Greatest Hits album and have a dance party in your car as you think back to your teenage dreams while simultaneously planning your next trip to Vegas, because that's the upside of adulting - being able to appreciate the past, live in today and take hold of your future. 

I don't know what season you're in, where you've come from or where you're going, but I know there is a lot of good in all of it. There is crappy too, and I don't blame you for wanting to move past all of that, but somewhere in the middle of everything there is something to celebrate. And I would hate for you to miss out on a good party, because seriously, that's the worst.