I cried when I slumped into my plane seat at Houston Airport. It was a combination of relief at having made my connection (thanks to a swift jog across half of Houston), and a final realisation that I was heading home. It was only when I saw the map of the UK on my seat screen that it sunk in – I was going home.
Home to England, but away from America – where I had truely settled and made some dear friends.
My window out to the Atlantic was small, but it is my window, and I can choose whether to look out of it or not. I feel like this five month adventure was a result of me looking out of my window, liking what I saw and wanting to see more.
Getting comfortable is the bane of any adventurer’s life, but i fund myself settling in Los Angeles quickly. Unsurprising, really, in a neighbourhood that was as friendly as it was affluent. The lifestyle lent itself to an easy existence, where life’s riches dropped at your door and people greeted you with a smile that suggested life satisfaction.
What my adventures truely offered me was the chance to meet new people and it threw so many brilliantly memorable souls my way.
Which is why I left the States with a heavy heart. But also with a promise to return soon, and stay longer. Much longer.
Previously on my travels to America I have been quite content to return home to England by the time my adventure was up. Not this time. I wasn’t ready to come home. I could have happily stayed longer, and had the option to, but there was something I had to come back for. Something I would have regretted not being there for.
The near future sees me staying in London, but past that, I really don’t know. I want to go back to America, there are lots of people I want to see, but also lots of things I want to do. I feel like my list is endless. I guess that’s a good thing.
I’m holding you to that promise, sir.