- Marcus Tullius Cicero
From my window I can look out on a street that - give or take the odd spell working or studying elsewhere - I have lived in since I was seven years old. It hasn't changed much. Most of the houses now have double glazing that wasn't there in 1964. The Laburnum tree that used to stand in our garden has long since been chopped down. The paving stones have gone, replaced by tarmac. Where there used to be a concrete lamp post there is now a metal one. It's all very superficial. The changes are cosmetic. The biggest change, when I stand and think about it, is how much smaller it all seems now than then. When we came here a single street was a far bigger world than I needed. Now a single world seems too small for me.
I had changed before I started my travelling and in travelling I have changed more. I feel restless. I want to be moving. It's always nice to know you have a home to come back to but it's even nicer to be thinking that thought from an unfamiliar town on the other side of the world.
When I started this journey nine months ago it stretched out ahead of me for such a long way that it seemed inconceivable that I would ever be finished. Now I'm wondering where all that time went. Time is a strange thing though. A minute can stretch out for ever. A year can colapse to nothing. Days that are experienced as an eternity are too often remembered as an instant.
When I think of any individual experience it feels as if it happened a lifetime ago but when I think of the trip as a whole it seems to have lasted barely a few days. Did I really spend seven weeks killing time and learning Spanish in Quito? Can it possibly be more than half a year since I was in Las Vegas with the luxury of a bath instead of a shower for the first time in three months? Is it genuinely already months since I sat in a helicopter flying over the magnificent Iguazu Falls?
And why has it all happened so fast? Where did last year go ?
The curious symmetry to my travels, bracketed as they were by statues and waterfalls, street artists and salt flats was totally unintentional. Even as I was experiencing it, it existed only as a vague coincidence in my mind. Not until I sat down to structure my notes and begin writing did I realise how pronounced it had been.
Considering that I have been from the far North of Alaska to the bottom of the world in Tierra del Fuego it seems appropriate that the geographical symmetry should be matched by this organisational one.
What did I enjoy the most?
How can I say? The National Parks of North America have a variety and grandeur that is hard to match but the alien landscapes of the Uyuni Salt flats were like nothing I had ever seen before. I got to know and love Quito in my prolonged stay but other towns left as strong an impression in a shorter time. San Cristobal with its narrow cobbled streets and its pastel blue and orange buildings was a delight. Lima left the wrong impression when our boots and sleeping mats were stolen from the roof of our moving truck.
Cartagena changed in a few miles from grim slums to a seaside resort that would have graced a Mediterranean bay.
Our campgrounds varied from luxurious official sites to rough bush camps without even water for washing.
Sometimes we stayed in hotels - the Hotel Trinidad in Merida with its bizarre collection of weird art is one that I will not quickly forget.
In truth its all been wonderful. What I've enjoyed most has been everything.
Even when things were going wrong and I was considering leaving the trip altogether to go travelling solo, it was still fun in a rather perverse way.
All this though is going over old ground. The past, however wonderful it may have been, is gone. Perhaps the end came too soon.
Perhaps it was over and done and I was at home in Bilston almost before I was aware of it. Perhaps it felt as if I had never been away. Perhaps, having written all this down as an epilogue to the trip it is now time to re-enter the real world and find a proper job. It would certainly make my father a happy man if I did, but it's not a very alluring prospect.
On the other hand perhaps it's time to consider the future, to start the business of planning where I'll go next and how long I'll be away this time.
As I said nine months ago, travel gets into the blood.
I had changed before I started my travelling and in travelling I have changed more. I feel restless. I want to be moving. It's always nice to know you have a home to come back to but it's even nicer to be thinking that thought from an unfamiliar town on the other side of the world.
When I started this journey nine months ago it stretched out ahead of me for such a long way that it seemed inconceivable that I would ever be finished. Now I'm wondering where all that time went. Time is a strange thing though. A minute can stretch out for ever. A year can colapse to nothing. Days that are experienced as an eternity are too often remembered as an instant.
When I think of any individual experience it feels as if it happened a lifetime ago but when I think of the trip as a whole it seems to have lasted barely a few days. Did I really spend seven weeks killing time and learning Spanish in Quito? Can it possibly be more than half a year since I was in Las Vegas with the luxury of a bath instead of a shower for the first time in three months? Is it genuinely already months since I sat in a helicopter flying over the magnificent Iguazu Falls?
And why has it all happened so fast? Where did last year go ?
The curious symmetry to my travels, bracketed as they were by statues and waterfalls, street artists and salt flats was totally unintentional. Even as I was experiencing it, it existed only as a vague coincidence in my mind. Not until I sat down to structure my notes and begin writing did I realise how pronounced it had been.
Considering that I have been from the far North of Alaska to the bottom of the world in Tierra del Fuego it seems appropriate that the geographical symmetry should be matched by this organisational one.
What did I enjoy the most?
How can I say? The National Parks of North America have a variety and grandeur that is hard to match but the alien landscapes of the Uyuni Salt flats were like nothing I had ever seen before. I got to know and love Quito in my prolonged stay but other towns left as strong an impression in a shorter time. San Cristobal with its narrow cobbled streets and its pastel blue and orange buildings was a delight. Lima left the wrong impression when our boots and sleeping mats were stolen from the roof of our moving truck.
Cartagena changed in a few miles from grim slums to a seaside resort that would have graced a Mediterranean bay.
Our campgrounds varied from luxurious official sites to rough bush camps without even water for washing.
Sometimes we stayed in hotels - the Hotel Trinidad in Merida with its bizarre collection of weird art is one that I will not quickly forget.
In truth its all been wonderful. What I've enjoyed most has been everything.
Even when things were going wrong and I was considering leaving the trip altogether to go travelling solo, it was still fun in a rather perverse way.
All this though is going over old ground. The past, however wonderful it may have been, is gone. Perhaps the end came too soon.
Perhaps it was over and done and I was at home in Bilston almost before I was aware of it. Perhaps it felt as if I had never been away. Perhaps, having written all this down as an epilogue to the trip it is now time to re-enter the real world and find a proper job. It would certainly make my father a happy man if I did, but it's not a very alluring prospect.
On the other hand perhaps it's time to consider the future, to start the business of planning where I'll go next and how long I'll be away this time.
As I said nine months ago, travel gets into the blood.
