She said you're a ramblin' man
You ain't ever gonna change
You got a gypsy soul to blame
And you were born for leavin'
A couple years back, I told my mother that, someday, I would live in New York City.
I felt her frustration as she breathed loudly over the telephone. I immediately regretted saying it, but I knew it was true and awaited her response.
“Bry, everything is always about place for you. You are all about the place.”
“Well—“ I couldn’t respond.
I didn’t know how to answer and so I sat, bewildered and silent on the other end. For some reason, I was bothered by the comment. It was partially true—I had always associated my happiness and identity with place: I was a born traveler and staying in one place for too long made me antsy and hungry for more. I was a natural wanderer; it was in my bones. I knew that there was probably a deep rooted reason for my always wanting to be moving, learning, experiencing. I thrived off of change—I was happiest in movement, in a new, bigger place—somewhere I could feel bigger. I understood that. But I had never taken into consideration that maybe my mother was right: place was the reason I was addicted to travelling. I’d never taken into consideration that maybe goodbyes were easy for me, that I could leave easily, that I was born for leavin’.
That night I pulled out my journal and wrote in gigantic, furious script: Today, I change my perspective on travel—on life. Life is not about place, tangible things, money. It is, above all, about the people who give me the shivers, change me, the people who I love with everything that I am, the people who bring me down to earth, who I can be myself around, and who make me better. From now on, my ultimate goal while travelling is find this.
Before I left for Argentina, I tore that page, ragged from my journal, and shoved it into my new one, to remind me of my new task at hand.
* * *
For some reason, even since the beginning of this big adventure called “STUDY ABROAD," my friends and I in Buenos Aires are always plunging head-first into deep, philosophical conversation.
Maybe it’s because we knew, from the beginning, from those awkward introductions, that we were trudging bravely into a short lived relationship, with a promise of leaving at the end of the four months abroad. We needed to cut straight to the chase: “What are your passions, what are you all about? Tell me everything I ever need to know—including your deepest darkest secrets. You only have four months: Go.”
Or maybe it was just because all of us were changing substantially and we justified it constantly by saying it out loud. Or maybe we’re just “those type of people.” We’ll probably never know.
Regardless of the reason, and with less than 5 days remaining with these incredible people, I can’t stop thinking about friendship while travelling. What a strange way to begin a relationship: with a taxi ride to take you away—already pre-paid and anticipated. A time limit. A contract that says you’ll hop on a plane, leave your fairytale life behind, and maybe never see the person you spent every waking moment with for the past four months again. You sign on the line that promises a pre-planned, masochistic, dreadful goodbye.
Nonetheless, we did it. We closed our eyes, didn’t hold back, signed our hearts away, and fell in love.
Now, I have less than a week and final exams coming out my ears to get everything out on the table, before we set foot into our new adventures as separate people. After a million seconds of contemplation as to how to repay you all, I decided: What better way than a letter? A dedication. A blogged thank you card. A tear jerking, overly-sappy and probably melodramatic publication of my love for you.
And so she wrote.
Addressed to: You know who you are.
Dearest loves,
Where to even start? It seems like just yesterday, we were in the stuffy ISA office, introducing ourselves with shaky voices and hazy eyes, in a city bigger than our dreams and more polluted than our first impressions. We were awkward. Really awkward. We thought we would always be awkward, always be uncomfortable. We didn’t see the end, and now it’s here. After four short months, we’re here— 100 plus blog posts later, lessons learned, arguments under our belt, and a readiness to head home. We’re no longer scared of the awkward questions, and we don’t give a shit about getting drunk at the dance clubs—we just wanna dance, together. (Plus, we can’t afford it.) We’ve danced in the streets, flirted with homesickness, but found each other instead of tears. We’ve drifted apart, come back together, dug deeper, and fallen in love.
How lucky are we?
To be fair, this letter will never be adequate. I’ve sat hours on my bed with blank sheets of paper to write your goodbye letters. Nothing. It will never be enough to explain the jump in my stomach when someone talks about your departure. I will always change the subject. What about the feeling of loneliness that I haven’t been able to explain for the last two weeks? All because I subconsciously know that I’m going to miss you, your laugh, our laughs, our lives we’ve made here together. Bitching together. Just being.
I guess that’s what you’ve taught me, after all: how to be. How to be happy, how to be sad, how to be here.
And after everything, I’ll watch you get on the bus, probably make a joke to avoid flushed wet cheeks, and say, hesitantly, “We’ll see each other.” My hands will be shaking but I won’t notice until afterwards. I’ll wave goodbye and say chau from afar, hold back the tears until the bus skids away.
But what I really want to say is, very simply: Thank you. You were more than I expected to find, you were more than I deserved. You were the reason Buenos Aires was so life-changing, the reason I got up when I missed home more than anything. The reason I kept breathing some days. You were the reason I laughed, the reason I changed, the reason I had the time of my life for the last 4 months. You are the reason.
But most importantly,you are proof that I am not, after all, just about the place.
I’ll miss you.
Xox, B
Otherwise, my life has been a sort of rollercoaster in itself, and I’ve learned a lot lately, with the most recent happenings. I guess, what I’ve learned, is that life never turns out the way you expect it to—which is oddly beautiful and so incredibly frustrating. For example: I lost my keys two weeks before moving out, the same night that I lost my ticket to the Strokes. I bawled my little eyes out to my host family, who hugged me and threw me a pity party. I bought another ticket and still saw them, and almost cried they were so good. My headphones were stolen. I saw the most beautiful waterfalls in the world, and was literally short of breath. The first day we tried to go, it torrential down poured. I moshed for ten straight hours and fell madly in love with David Guetta and electronic music festivals. We moshed until the sun came up. It took us 3 hours to get home the next day. I stopped eating sugar. I went to GayPride where 100,000 other people were rooting for equality. I stopped drinking alcohol (for the most part). I said goodbye to some of the best (and weirdest) people I know, with a promise lingering that we’ll see each other again. I started running again. My host family charged me a hundred bucks to stay an extra 3 days. They also told me I looked pretty today. And the list goes on…
Xoxo, B
