Warning: This post contains insufferable whining and petulance

Fauxhawk and I stood at the foot of the stairs, looking up five flights up.

We were home.

Our bags lay in disheveled heaps all around us. “Where is the porter with the lovely mustache to help us carry them up the stairs?” I cried, with alarming petulance. “Who will pre-fluff our pillows? Who will bring us breakfast in bed?”

Fauxhawk looked vaguely amused. “You’re spoiled,” he said. “How quickly you get used to a little luxury…”

It was true - I was spoiled rotten. I approached the stairs up to Fauxhawk’s apartment like I was heading to the electric chair. Cowboy the fuck up girl and quit yer whining, I thought. I remembered the girl who trekked solo through Ethiopia this summer - cold, wet, muddy, and wearing two pairs of underwear in bed to protect her lady parts from fleas. Despite a conspicuous lack of luxury, that girl had the time of her life. But with the sudden introduction of pre-fluffed pillows and pre-threaded needles and pre-warmed sheets – of impeccable service and supreme graciousness and sweetness beyond measure – I had gotten soft. India had spoiled me.

And now we were home.

Suffice it to say that the pillows were decidedly unfluffed. The bed was made, thank God, but no one – not even the imaginary maid - had bothered to turn down the sheets or place warm slippers on a silky mat. I was, however, cheered to see that Roy and Verne had not peed in the shower or played hockey with their poop while we were gone, though I realized that this was only because they were boarding with our beloved friends.

The next day it was cold and dark and gray. I stayed home, stewing in my pajamas and sporting an epic hair helmet. Fauxhawk the Intrepid went to work and called to check in.

“It’s bad out here, P.” he warned. “I don’t recommend it.”

“I know. Not going out there. Ever.” I said. “I miss India.”

By “out there” we meant what is commonly known as “real life.” Work. Reality. I haven’t the foggiest idea what this really means, because the parts of my life that I’ve spent traveling have felt the most real to me. The intensity of discovering new places and new people makes me feel more alive, more inspired, more spirited than almost anything else in life I experience.

At work, I am determined to capture the magical feeling of India and keep it with me, like a firefly in a jar. I sit in my drab little cubicle, slowly sinking into the quicksand of the quotidian, and I am buoyed by an occasional flash of light. It keeps me company. It reminds me that inspiration and adventure still exist somewhere.

But fireflies don’t live forever in a jar. Eventually, they fade and leave us with an emptiness that wants to be filled, once again, with light.


Poster from the May 1968 student movement in Paris, featured on this site, which I learned about from Maybe Maven, a fabulous design blog I discovered yesterday.