It’s already been a month since I made my first trek to Phnom Penh and experienced this well-known yet no less easy twelve hour layover in the McDonald’s-less Incheon Airport in Korea. The last time I was here, only a mere hundred feet away from where I sit now as I finished another entry, I was crying my eyes out. It was after a long night of slamming Soju and Asahi with Yoshi and our new friend, Misato, hashing out all of our frustrations and navigating through feelings of our impending work trip. I had experienced a restless six hours in the airport hotel, I was feeling anxious and disoriented, not knowing what to expect as I went back to the country I had left so recently and simply exhausted physically and emotionally.
I find it difficult to trust people, and I believe that stemming from that lack of trust comes me being easily irritated. I don’t know if there was a specific time or event that caused me to question people’s motives, what true colors lie beneath, and whether I would be the one, yet again, walking away first.
Here I am again, eyes parallel with the clouds. It’s familiar, this situation. The seats feel the same: ever so slightly sticky against the back of my legs, right arm a bit warmer than the left from the sun streaming in from my window seat, tears behind my eyes waiting to meet my collarbone, and head foggier than usual from the air pressure. The hazy blue veiled with a fleet of cirrus that meet the mountain range just beyond the wing of the plane. This time I’m leaning into the wall to avoid contact with the man who has decided that the entire arm rest belongs to him; spacial awareness obviously not a strong suit.
Backlogged from April 16, 2015.
As I sit on a Wi-Fi-less plane with a few hours left on my first leg to New York, I’ve got little else to do than look at old snapshots in my Camera Roll on my iPhone.
The blue hour varies from place to place, from time and from space.
To know this is a gift, a blessing and a curse.
Wouldn’t it be easier to release my hold on the world that I wish I knew?
To eat that proverbial oyster and swallow it hard along with my pride?
Is it pride or is it the need to fulfill my wanderlust?
Will that wanderlust fail me?
Did it fail my parents?
Did it ever leave them?
It’s curious, being in this new place. There’s so much I’m unfamiliar with. Walking lightly cobbled streets that the soles of my shoes have never touched, ghosting my way under street lamps with a Cheshire small spread thick across my lips, scuttling down the subway steps in a false hurry to another new place.
There are times when I wonder what it feels like to be brave. Are we even aware of it when we are in a moment of courage? Do you feel a rush of adrenaline before a moment of fearlessness? Maybe, maybe not.
These days I often feel like I’m starring in an episode of an HBO (okay, I could go for FOX– okay, even ABC fam) TV show. Generally the type that opens with a jazzy little theme song and a cheeky vignette of the different characters in a wide range of emotions: Anna laughing, Anna swilling mimosas at brunch with her friends, Anna hugging a boy right after a breakup, Anna eating a fresh slice with her friends, Anna hopping onto a plane with the perfect carry-on sized piece of luggage in hand, Anna navigating through the streets among her “co-stars”. How fun! How cute! How relatable! Continue reading
Today is what I call a Washington day: overcast, slate grey, hints of fog drifting over the sound, and a slight bite in the air. I’m wearing plush furry slippers, a sinfully cozy sweatshirt, and joggers- curled up under a marshmallowy throw. Some people hate this blanket of a gunmetal hue over the city and I am surprised at how quickly I have reacclimatized to the weather here. Complaints of “sweating like an asshole” and “I’m literally melting” have been sent to me from friends in Cambodia and I sure don’t miss that. It’s strange not rolling over onto one of many air conditioner remotes in the middle of the night and being able to wear a velvet robe at any time of the day.