That’s a 10p coin right there
It has been nearly a month and a half now. Truthfully it’s been an incredibly quick dash, keeping a frantic pace while doing my utmost best to get the most out of each stop along the way.
The longest I’ve stayed in any one town or city has been 4 nights, and that was purely by chance as I simply happened to fall in love with Granada. It wasn’t planned or executed all that well if I’m honest. I still spent almost an entire day while there trying to simply figure out how to do laundry once again…
9 countries, 20 ‘stops’ (twenty!!) and 10 different languages later, I’ve returned to London, England.
It has to be the first time in my life that I am genuinely surprised when a stranger speaks to me in English. It has actually caught me off guard a few times since I’ve been back in London. I spent the first few weeks of this trip anticipating English simply because that is my history and what I’m accustomed to hearing. I find myself seeing strangers a bit differently now, and I like that. My people-watching imagination and skills have gotten much better and more entertaining.
It honestly has been very tiring. With my lack of plans for this trip and quite severe change in overall destination, I truthfully had very little in the way of a schedule. Most decisions were made at most 1 night before needed; hostels booked at the same time, and trains booked just slightly before that. The amount of mental energy I’ve expended simply staring at a map and picking my next destination based on proximity and train schedules has been immense. London is proving a very welcome respite before I set off again.
As you can imagine, I don’t really know where I’m going on Friday, just that I will be.
I’ve sketched out a rough plan that involves an end destination of Dublin for St. Patrick’s Day; but again, chances that plan fully comes to fruition is less than the chance that I WON’T have a snorer in my hostel room tonight. I’ve had my fair share on this trip that have indescribably hindered my sleep, as I’m sure a few may claim the same of me. I can’t hear myself though, so I can only speak of the others; inconsiderate sods that they are.
As I putter around London, contemplating how much clothing I will need to purchase to continue in the colder parts of Europe, I realise just how much this trip has taken out of me. I’ve loved it, after (as I’m sure some of you will know having spoken to me around the ‘Venice days’) an admittedly rocky start.
It has been very different from Australia, the wonder coming less from nature than from culture and people. It is not a stretch to say that my best and favourite stops have been the ones where I met the most people and took part in the cultures with gusto.
I still can’t figure out when Spanish restaurants are open or when their people eat; and I’m okay with that. I have enjoyed simply being lost, struggling my way through very broken conversations; frantically searching my brain for those lost Spanish lessons of 12 years ago or how I was greeted by the Swiss shop owner of 10 minutes ago; hoping to be able to at least start a query off with a local greeting.
The most entertaining moments have been when I forget what country I’m in, thanking a waiter in France with ‘Grazi’, or greeting a merchant in Morocco with ‘Hola’. I laugh, and they stare. As with myself and strangers, I now understand that they have absolutely no idea where I’ve just come from or where I’m going next. Truthfully, half of that equation is a mystery to myself as well. Only 10 minutes ago, to pay for my pint of beer in the pub that I’m now sitting as I write this, I magically procured a ½ Swiss Franc coin; all of which I was sure I’d stashed away over a month ago. The bartender didn’t find this nearly as amusing as I did, pointing into my hand and explaining the shape of the 10 pence coin needed to complete the transaction.
As I plan the next few weeks, or at least pretend to, knowing full well my plans mean nothing when I set off; I keep wondering how I’ll fare with new languages as well as interesting variations of ones I already know. I, for instance, am distinctly looking forward to staring blankly at a Scotsman as he speaks what I can assume is English, but which confuses me as much as Luxembourgish did.
What I’ve come to figure out is that language and currency can be transformative. It can take the shape and meaning of whatever is needed at that moment. What matters is the people behind them and how much they truly want to communicate.
I can offer to pay in Euros, and get told that here, in Switzerland, we only accept Swiss Francs and after explaining that I have no Swiss Francs, finish the sale in Euros.
I can hold a conversation with a Moroccan restaurant owner without either of us understanding a word the other is saying.
I can be returned to an English speaking country, and not be sure of what I’m about to say.
I’m finding myself reminiscing to the good old days of 2 days ago…
There is no feeling quite like being lost in a country where I know I will struggle to ask someone directions. You feel terror, self-consciousness, excitement and worry all in one.
And yet, for all of that, I know that it will be okay.
Eventually, they will point at that 10 pence coin; and in spite of all our shared differences, confusion and curiosity, we’ll know exactly what each other is saying.