Baggage

I'd run from Leeds after running from London. Leaving a seven-year relationship at 24 puts a certain kind of blue in you. The blue grew. I couldn't stop hearing her voice. In December chill, mum drove from Leeds to London to collect me in a white Transit van. Into this, I packed up our life together. Before its rear doors, I cried as if she were dead. Here was my great failure. Compressed, condensed, stacked in front of my eyes. What had I done? Yes, I was the one that did the breaking. For those who have never left a relationship, if the love is still there, it turns upon you. It does for you like the elder brother of the person you love.

To escape, I did what I was good at. I drank. I made drinks. I drank more. Defiantly strong my body handled the hangovers. In chorus, my heart and soul howled.

Driving around in terrible states: drunk, drugged, streaming tears and torn, I followed any road that might make me forget for a while. Anything that might give me a little gulp of air. The funny thing is, the more you pursue escape, the more you sink. So, down I sank. Somewhere along the line, two years passed.

I had always wanted to travel. Cuba, because of Hemingway (I'd thought I wanted to write); Peru, because I wanted to see Machu Picchu; Mexico, because I'd a friend there who taught English, I thought I might do the same. Like in The Old Man and the Sea, I had my own lions on the beaches in the evening to find. My dreams weren't enough. I cobbled together fare for a few plane tickets. I didn't know if the money left over would sustain me through the trip. But I knew I had to go.

Taking off I really believed the plane would go down. How could I possibly have made it out alive?

The plane landed. After two months in Cuba, I went on to Peru. Returning to Lima after living in the Amazon with a shaman for two weeks, I made a rookie mistake. I went to get change in a shop so I could pay the taxi driver. He drove off. Inside was my backpack with everything I owned. Contact lenses for the rest of my trip (my eye prescription is -10 (for those that don't know, read I'm blind as a bastard bat)); iPhone (cracked); art I'd traded for poetry; notebooks full of notes from the trip. All gone. I still had three months to go. And not a soul on the planet knew where I was.

In the humid night, I went through the streets from hostel to hostel trying to find a place to stay. Everywhere was full. After two trips to the police station, I made my way down to the dark-cliffed coast, which drops dramatically into the Pacific Ocean. Under the moon, the sea hushed. There I sat awaiting the sun. Eventually, behind me, the city began to stir. In front lay an ocean of uncertainty. But, odd as it may seem, I felt great. Everything I needed was there. In me. I knew I was going to be alright.

Travel taught me serendipity. It taught me loneliness. It taught me that I can't run from myself (though I still try). It taught me how lucky I am even when it seems all my luck has run out. And it taught me I can still feel good wearing an ensemble assembled from lost property clothing.

Journeys begin within us, well before a plane ticket to anywhere. The bright souvenirs from these inner adventures live on inside. And cannot be stolen by a taxi driver. The taxista that night somehow gave by taking. For that, to him, cheers.