221 - Smile Because It Happened… Asshole
“Don't cry because it's over. Smile because it happened.”
— Dr. Seuss
AND JUST LIKE THAT, IT WAS TIME TO GO HOME. Something inside me clicked, and I knew the journey was over. Done. Finito. It wasn’t a decision. If I'd kept globetrotting for another year, the odyssey would’ve ended in that café on Istiklal Avenue in Istanbul. From then on, it wasn’t traveling, only running. Perhaps I’d been running all along, but at that point, I could no longer delude myself.
So, within less than twenty-four hours of purchasing a ticket, I was floating above the Atlantic Ocean, homeward bound. I’d spent two years, three months, and twenty-four days exploring the globe. It didn’t end there… not quite.
After finishing my last blog post, I continued to revisit my digital journal. I would edit the text and photos, including a few things I didn’t have time for on the road. This was my reward for setting aside all those hours dedicated to recording my experience. I could now relive it. And so I did and continue to do.
On that note, I never set the blog aside. I’d always dreamed of upgrades. Better website. Better photo and text editing with modern software. Just better. It’s the best way I could think of to preserve the memories and express my undying gratitude for everything I’d experienced. My rural home lacked access to high-speed internet until recently, so my upgrade dream had to wait.
Until now. Going back all these years later has been both edifying and heart-wrenching. I should’ve written more. I should’ve taken more photos. It was never enough. It will never be enough. The most I can do is appreciate as much as possible without letting it escape my grasp. So, I created a new website to pay homage to whatever cosmic forces allowed me to experience all that I did. By upgrading and memorializing, I’ve ensured the journey won’t end, not until I’ve reached my ultimate conclusion.
A gift… Not a day went by during or after that I haven’t viewed it as such. I lived a dream, and what a dream it was. But, like every dream, we all must wake… eventually. Could it ever be enough? If you appreciated every single goddamn moment as if it were your last, would it be enough? Not a fucking chance. That may sound ungrateful, but don’t confuse existential longing with discontent or the disease of material lust. Ever wish your children would never grow up? Ever spend time with your best friends and rue the day everything would change? Enjoy watching your parents grow old? Still miss the dog you had growing up? Your first job? First apartment? First love?
"You must have been warned against letting the golden hours slip by.
Yes, but some of them are golden only because we let them slip by."
-James M. Barrie, novelist and playwright (1860-1937)
I threw away a career as a lawyer and discarded a cushy job in the realm of government contract employment. If not for those decisions, I’d probably be divorced, own a condo, a Volvo, a 4K television with Dolby surround sound, an iPhone 25, two kitty cats, a fish tank, and a partridge in a pear tree. Would I be any happier? Or content? Maybe. Maybe not. Sure, I’d have more things and more money. Does that make what I did brave or stupid? That’s up for debate, even within the chamber of my cerebral parliament. My biggest mistake wasn’t having a plan for my post-expedition existence. I still don't. It’s hard not to see the folly in that. There are regrets. We are the choices we make. Not a single thing we do, nor a single step we take, doesn’t have consequences. Can we live with them? Can I?
So, I sit, and I dream of more. Not because I deserve more. Not because I feel entitled. Not because I need more. (I do.) Only because a hundred lifetimes would be insufficient to “suck out all the marrow of life.” That’s the triumph and the tragedy of our existence, whether or not we choose to face it. There’s a moment or period in everyone's life they treasure. It may be a minute or a year, but it’s there. And that moment, that feeling, that sense of comprehension, is a feeling like no other and trumps any drug out there. If you’re lucky, moments of triumph outnumber moments of tragedy. And if you’re really lucky, you have the good sense and good fortune to cherish that remarkable circumstance because, in the blink of an eye, someday it will all be over.
The world is a beautiful place. The world is an ugly place. Ugliness has an advantage. It tends to stick with you. It has a long half-life. Beauty is the underdog. You need to be reminded. It has adhesive qualities, but these don’t weather the passage of time well. This existential cruelty isn’t lost on me, and yet, even I forget the lyrics from time to time. We are not elephants. We do forget. We must be admonished.
Reminders aren’t scarce. They’re within reach at just about any moment. It could be as simple as closing your eyes and traveling back. Or staring at a photo, clutching a prized memento, or visiting the “spot” can serve as our time-machine talisman. But even with tools of remembrance so close at hand, we, as humans, are burdened with short-term memory…
…except with negativity. Negativity is an evolutionary failsafe to keep us alive long enough to reproduce. Is there something in the bushes? Assume the worst. Assume it’s a tiger. Stay alive. Higher primates share this “curse” to a degree, but only to a degree. Other mammals are unburdened, which is why zebras don’t get ulcers. And I believe the harder we try to forget, the harder it is to forget.
A fool’s errand. The worst times are the best reminders. Memory loss begets empathy loss. Without the pain, what kind of person are you? An exceedingly dull one, I should think. We must learn from our mistakes, misfortunes, and follies. I’ve found no better way to respect life and its associated simplicities and complexities. Without the pain, joy is nothing more than a neutral emotion. Neutrality is numbness. Numbness sucks.
Nevertheless, we forget the good.
Without fail, each successive adventure served to remind me of my travels and the overwhelming euphoria I'd experienced in years past. The longer the hiatus between journeys, the more faded my memories. In an instant, however, it comes rushing back, and I’m astonished by my inability to maintain a grip on joyful past moments. It’s a perplexing condition, a quasi-Alzheimer's that’s reversed when the enterprise begins anew. My addiction becomes comprehensible, the motive behind the compulsion unambiguous. I feel… right. If only I could bottle it up and take a swig now and again to re-intoxicate myself. Maybe that’s exactly what I've done here, at least for this brief period of my life…
