A Reflection of Sorts

I've been trying to write this for the past two months but try as I might, I just can't seem to be able to put into words the complexities of everything I experienced. So I present this to you as it is, nothing more than mere words, that despite the beautiful complexity of the English language, could never do justice to what I wish I could express.

My last sight of the ship, the MV Explorer, was from the airplane as I left San Diego for Denver. I thought I had said my goodbyes, but in some cruel twist of irony, there she was, right outside my window, sitting there in all her beauty as I was whisked away. That moment, watching her sit in port as we ascended, was the most heartbreaking thing I’ve ever experienced, which is probably pretty selfish considering everything I saw. But that ship was my home, my school, a place of familiarity and safety on the other side of the world, the place where all of my friends and family were; that ship was my entire life. And there I was, watching as she became smaller and smaller and wondering if I would ever see her again.

I walked off the airplane at DIA wearing Indian pants, a SAS hoodie, and sporting a stack of nine Vietnamese rice paddy hats on my head. I attracted some pretty curious looks, and I deserved and was proud of every one of them.

That first night back was everything I thought it would be, as I shared stories of my adventures and was welcomed back by my family and friends. But the homesickness for the life I had come to know for the past four months set in quicker than I thought it would. That first night back everyone eventually drifted off to bed, and I was ultimately left alone. Completely alone. For the first time in four months. It had never occurred to me how every moment of my life for the past four months there had constantly been people around. Whether I was enjoying their company, or just working on my computer while they sat nearby, or sleeping in my room with my roommate sleeping a few feet away, there were always people. And suddenly, for the first time in four months I was aware of nothing but the fact that there was no one. It was so bizarre. I had never thought about how lonely it would be not having 800 people around constantly. That first night back I sat and watched TV in my mom’s room while she slept because I couldn’t handle the emptiness.

The other thing that got to me pretty quickly was the lack of movement. I lived on a ship, and after a certain amount of time, the constant swaying just became second nature. There were a few nights after I got back when I just layed in bed at night, staring at the ceiling, wondering why everything had to be so eerily still, so still that it was impossible to sleep. It still feels too still sometimes, and I find myself wondering if the literal stillness really bothers me all that much, or if it is just a metaphor for how motionless my life has suddenly become.

And slowly, as the novelty of being back wares off (which was actually pretty quickly) more things trickle together into one big mess of things I miss. Things like:

• Being trapped in the same small space with 800 other people and thus never having a moment alone.
• Being cut off from technology
• Communication meaning face-to-face
• Stargazing on the 7^th deck
• Stuart’s voice
• 23-hour days
• Alibaba pants being chic
• Stealing grapes from the Garden Lounge in my water bottle
• Grumbling about not wanting to get out of bed and go to class a few feet away
• Stressing over what to do in the next port
• Late nights in the Piano Lounge
• Doing laundry in the bathroom sink
• Hearing a knock on my door instead of a cell phone buzz
• Bridge reports
• Nalbach’s powerpoints
• Captain Krstanovic’s red glasses
• Sunrises over port
• Sneaking into the Glacier Lounge to watch said sunrises
• Sneaking onto the observation deck when it was still closed off to watch said sunrises when the excitement was just too great to wait any longer
• Green sheets
• Living with all of my best friends
• Achiles and the rest of our amazing crew
• New towels every four days
• LeFevre ending every class with “YAAAY!!!”
• Ice cream cones on deck 7
• Everyone stumbling around like drunkards when the seas got rough
• Leaving my computer sitting in the hallway for hours on end to load an email with too many pictures
• Outrageous rumors, like when North Korea declared war on the US
• Whale sightings
• Military time
• Lifeboat drills
• Humidity
• Being rocked to sleep by the swaying of the ship
• Always waking up in a new place
• All of the above becoming so routine that we actually couldn’t wait to get off the ship

Most of all I miss that feeling of being alive, of never knowing what adventures tomorrow would bring, of seeing everything with amazement and wonder, of relishing every little moment because there was always something to be excited about. I miss the constant adrenalin and adventure.

Everyday it seems more and more like a dream. Everyday the mundaneness of ordinary life takes a stronger hold and I find myself living less and less in the moment and more and more in the memories of what was the greatest adventure anyone could ever hope for.

Since I got home I have refused to touch pasta or potatoes, but I would happily eat nothing but pasta and potatoes for an eternity if it meant being with everyone again and sailing to someplace new.

Being back home has been more of a culture shock than any traveling I have ever done, because when you travel, you expect things to be different. What you don’t expect, is to return back home and find someplace completely foreign, because traveling has changed the way you see things, and interpret the world. What used to be my humble little college house is now a house far more grand than the little shacks and huts that the majority of the people I met lived in. what used to be an ordinary lunch is now far more food than a family in Africa would ever hope to see in a day, maybe even a week. Where I used to see an immigrant worker who would move here without even bothering to learn English, I now see a person who somehow managed to escape a harsh and cruel life, and now has a chance to provide something better for his or her family. Where I used to see designer clothing, expensive jewelry, and fancy cars, I now see nothing but consumerism, superficial happiness, and the sad reality that all that the majority of people care about is wealth and personal gain.

A couple weeks after my return, my work flew me out to Minneapolis for our biannual conference. At the end of it all we had a lavish dinner for hundreds of attendees, the cost of which was $50 per person. As I sat there in the ballroom of the Hilton, eating my $50 endive salad, I remembered a little girl in Ghana, who not so long ago had joined my friends and I for dinner during our stay in her homeland. We had forgotten about her momentarily as we ate all that we desired, but after we were finished we looked over at her to find her still eating the same chicken leg she had been given, gnawing at the cartilage for every last scrap of sustenance she could scavenge. What I wouldn’t have done to send that $50 to her and her family.

I was asked recently by my uncle if traveling the world made me feel small, if seeing what a big place the world is made me feel tiny and insignificant. I can see how it would be easy to feel that way, but the truth is I feel quite the opposite, and not in a good way. I come from a country that everyone turns to and admires. I have the resources to travel, and to find enjoyment in what is nothing but harsh reality for the people who live there. Although I come from a relatively poor family by American standards, in many of these countries I had enough money to do whatever I pleased, while those who lived there had to labor tirelessly for their next meal. It is hard to feel small under such circumstances. I feel disgustingly spoiled. Someone told me that I was spoiled for getting to go on this trip before I left, and although it was true, I felt somewhat hurt because I had put so much into being able to make this happen. I don’t have rich parents who were able to pay for it for me; I had to come up with every penny myself. But now I see that that’s not the point. I am spoiled. Even if I had to work to make it happen, the fact that I did make it happen means I’ve had more of an advantage than the majority of the world. 

I am so grateful that I had the opportunity to experience such an incredible adventure, to see the world, to live on a ship, and to meet some of the most inspiring people I have ever known. To Semester at Sea, my friends, and my family: thank you for giving me the world.