I’m finding pieces of what I was looking for in France—people and lively streets, a certain resilience and hedonism I admire, loved ones and a familiar feel, a sense of safety and normalcy, relief and the ability to disconnect from reality even now and then.
But I still don’t have answers and some days, I feel as confused as I was throughout spring and earlier this summer in Canada.
Where are we going with this?
Today, I suddenly realized this sense of uncertainty shows in my travel articles. I like to tell stories with a beginning and an end, or at least, some kind of momentary conclusion. Even though like every person with an Internet connection and a social media presence I make my life looks amazingly spontaneous, I kind of have a plan or at least a rough outline—no, seriously, I never actually show up at the airport and just “jump on a plane.” In fact, most of the time, I’m boringly predictable. Ask any of my friends. I work, parent, exercise, read, write, sleep and repeat. And even when I travel, I do all of the above except I’m on the road.
But it’s hard to find a narrative this year. I sure hope the climax was “pandemic coming!” but I have no idea how the story ends.
Basically, we do whatever we can whenever we can.
I can’t take anything for granted anymore—school, work, the ability to move freely from place to place or to see loved ones whenever I want. Everyone around me feels the same. Anything can change anytime and for once, this is not a motivational poster but reality.
So, what’s left?
Moments of happiness and normalcy as if it was any other year.
Still, the ending had better be good, Hollywood style.