Back to the Same Old Streets

At first you walk out of the subway station and it feels like you’ve rolled in to yet another town. Yes, it seems very familiar, but so does Zagreb when you’ve been to it four times. Yet, each step gets more and more solid. The walls seem less like the illusion of life that you’ve been living in for the last three months. The walls seem real. They seem like home however flawed they are.
But even after the first few nights when you get home, it doesn’t seem like home. You wake up in the morning, not knowing where you are, like when you woke up in Belgrade in a panic, only to fall back asleep again. But then slowly, the thoughts that there is a train to catch, or a plane to board, or a pension owner to haggle with fade away. A sense of stillness creeps over you and it’s strange.
We adjust so well to new things, or at least some do. That feeling of movement became home for a whole season of the year. The spirit of adventure and any other platitude that fits the moment can be tied on to it, while at the same time, all of this is quickly wash away again.
But which is better, the life of traveling or the life of home? It’s impossible for me to say because I don’t have the resources to make a constant life of travel a possibility and home is the only way of living that’s truly tangible, because I always have to return to it. I have to pay for the freedom that I’ve had and I have to look back on the trip that I’ve just taken and compare it with sitting still to realize all that I’ve seen and all that I’ve done over the the last quarter of the year. And it’s once this stillness sets in and you get comfortable that the tickling of travel starts beckoning to you again.
Back to the Same Old Streets