The End

Sunday I awoke to another warm sunny day in Madrid. After checking out and leaving my stuff in storage, I went out to kill some time before I headed to the airport. I grabbed a sandwich from a small shop and wandered around until I found somewhere decent to sit.

I walked past the Prado museum to stumble upon the botanical gardens next door. I paid €2 to walk around the beautifully manicured gardens and found a stone bench in the shade. With beams of light breaking threw the foilage, I sat under a yellowing tree and reminisced about my trip. The wind would gently blow and the leaves would softly swirl to the ground like golden snow. By coming to Spain I had avaided autumn a little longer, but now the fall had caught up with me. The trees were finally letting go, as I would need to.

I sat, for how long, I wasn't sure. I replayed everyday, every destination, and every adventure I had experienced in the exact order. On highspeed I replayed the last four months of my life with startling accuracy.

On any given day, a backpacker usually doesn't know the date, or even the day of the week. I was no exception. But looking back, I suddenly could remember everyday, and exactly what day it was.

I remembered the morning I said goodbye to my parents, the day I stood on the tallest cliffs, saw the Effiel tower for the first time, had a Belgium waffle in Belgium, and the crazyness of Amsterdam. I relived the simple coincidental moments that brought me together with my new friends in Berlin and the instant connection we shared. I was glad to have made the long journey to visit a friends family, and the spontanious trip to Croatia. The long journey to Greece made me question myself, but reconnecting with my friends gave me all the strength I needed.

The Greek islands proved to be the best time, but I knew it was only good because of who I was with. I remembered the wild nights, the inside stories, and the quick change of itineraries. With Walter & Rachael Europe became our playground. We took stupid photos of the Leaning Tower of Pisa, hiked Cinque Terra in flip-flops, and bent (okay, maybe broke) a few laws. I sadly replayed the days when we said our final goodbyes, and how lonely I felt. Even more then before.

But even in sadness, I had to push on. I returned to Italy, to get lost in Venice, walk the ancient streets of Rome, to have Pizza in Naples, the birthplace of pizza, and return to Florence once more.

I recalled my gorgeous days in Nice, and winning in Monte-Carlo. The rainy days of Marseille were not forgotten, although I would have liked to. I imagined seeing Sagrada Familia in Barcelona once more, the recent memory still fresh in my mind. The wonder of Valencia was just a few days ago, and in Madrid I had begun counting down the hours.

I sat counting the mistakes I made, and noted that they were very few and far between. I had been blessed somewhere along the way, and was fortunate enough not to experience any catastrophes.

The good times flooded my mind. Did I really do all that? Did I visit all those places? It felt like a year ago I arrived in Ireland. At times it felt like a week was a month, and then suddenly I was headed home. My final day had arrived.

I sat in a daze.

It wasn't until the sun came around the trees and started to heat up my skin that I finally broke out of my trance. With a long reminisce taken care of I spent a couple more hours reading until it was finally time to head to the airport.

I had been ready to go home for a while, but it wasn't until I got through the Madrid airport security check that it all clicked—I'm finally going home.

In Dublin I had to stay a night, but the hotel was included. After months in hostels, the hotel room felt like a luxurious mansion. Plenty of room, my own double bed, a wall of windows, a TV, a coffee pot, and my own sparkling clean bathroom. I kind of wished I could had stayed a bit longer, but the next morning I had to catch another flight.

I had arrived in Europe four months ago via Dublin, and now I was leaving the same way. The flight went without any turbulence, and thanks to on-demand movies, the eight hours went by relatively quickly. Unlike last time, I knew all too well the layout of the Chicago airport, and I was able to easily navigate through. Already tired, I grabbed a coffee and settled in for my five hour layover.

Finally the time came to board my flight back to Portland. The Rose City had been calling me back, and she was only four hours away. On arrival I had been awake for a solid twenty-four hours, and for me it was the morning after, but none of that mattered. I was finally home.

It truely was the trip of a life time. With these entries, my travel journal, and stories from friends, my adventure was well documented. I know it has changed me. How much I'm not quite sure yet, but I know it has.

I had hoped that somewhere along my journey I would figure out what I wanted to do next. If anything, I feel even more confused. I had some ideas before, a couple different forks-in-the-road to choose from, but now I feel like I'm standing in the desert with a million paths around me. Which one do I take?

I can only hope that what I have gone through has prepared me for what's next. No matter what I decide to do, the end is still the same. I want to see more of the world. After a long, and much needed break of course. But going to so many places has given me a thirst, and a greater sense of confidence. With so much to see, it will be a challenge in and of itself.

Now I'm home. And all I can pray for, is that when I wake up, it won't all have been a miraculous dream.