On Home and London

“How often have I lain beneath rain on a strange roof, thinking of home.” 

-William Faulkner

It's a cliché as old as the world, but factoid don't obtain the status of 'cliché' for no reason: Some things truly never do change.

I've mentioned my affinity for crossroads and imagery that has been hopelessly played out before, and as we draw ever closer to the end of April, I can't help but elaborate once more. I'd previously made reference to some potentially big news, and I now feel like it's relatively safe for me to come forward with it. Perhaps I'm still jumping the gun, but I can't be bothered. I'm already writing anyway, and if there's one thing I've never been particularly good at, it's knowing when not to do something, or when to decide against something.

Up until a few days ago, it was looking very likely I wouldn't be able to remain in London beyond next week. By very likely, I mean "more than a 90-percent chance" likely. My stay in the Big Smoke has been somewhat of an uncertainty ever since I got here, but difficult circumstances involving British bureaucracy at its finest and some miscommunications between the UK and US branches of the company I work with seemed to have sealed my fate. I'd be forced to leave the country and move back home, and that would be the end of it. Since then, new developments have come to light and as of right now, it looks like I'll be able to prolong my stay just a little longer. No certainties yet, but at least it's looking a lot better than before.

Filled with doubt over what my future would look like, these last few weeks had been an absolute nightmare. At one point I took a tube to St Paul's and just started walking and taking photos (if you know me at all, you know how I feel about photos) and before I realised what was happening I was standing in the middle of St James' Park in the dark. I'd literally walked from St Paul's to the City, Monument, Bank, Tower Bridge, all of the South Bank, Westminster, up to Buckingham Palace and back to Duck Island. For those of you unfamiliar with London: That's a pretty long walk. Like, about six hours-long. I was just completely lost in my mind, and truly scared for what was about to come next.

Now I'm obviously not going to go overboard trying to explain why all of this would be such an issue for me. We've all got better things to do.

But last week was the start of the surfcamp-season, and for the first time in six years, I won't be a part of that. It's a very odd sensation, seeing status-updates and photos from former collegues as they start preparations for the first few groups of guests who I assume will be arriving at some point next week (the schools and stuff, actual guests will be a few more weeks). 

I'm having a harder time dealing with this than I thought I would. I love surfing, and I love the whole surfcamp-vibe, but after the debacle that was the summer of 2013, I'd just had enough for a while. I wasn't sure I could go through all of that again, and when the fall and winter took a turn for the worst and this opportunity in London came to light, I had to take it. Sure, London hasn't been all that great either (more on that later) and I have come to learn I do not accept change the way I used to, but I stated this was something I needed to do when I first came here and I'm standing by it.

Still, it's only natural for me to miss my former life. After all, it was a pretty epic one, and realising the lot of you will be going through the motions once again (I'm looking at you two specifically, Peter and MIKEY, even though neither of you will ever read this) while I won't be there for the first time in over a half-decade hits home.

But it's more than that, more than just me missing the camps and the beautiful Basque Country (it really is beautiful btw, for those of you still planning your summer holidays. San Sebastian might be the greatest city I've ever visited). Receiving word my credentials for surf coaching and lifesaving had expired hardly even registered.

I'd come to accept the inevitable nature of a move back home in recent weeks, and on some level, I was looking forward to it. Despite the obvious disappointment of failing at a job I really don't want to fail at and not being able to see through a six-month contract I signed, I relished the thought of seeing my friends and family again. I first left home the moment I'd finished high school, and now, at the age of 25, the thought of home has never felt more, well, homely, if you will.

Which stands in sharp contrast of how I felt when I left the damn place just a few months ago. I'd spent so much time in contempt of my surroundings and couldn't wait to leave. I'd had it with that place, those lands where I was born and raised but which hadn't felt like home in a long time.

At some point we learn to accept those places define who we are. I was molded by my home, to paraphrase the fantastic Friday Night Lights, and no matter where I go, I will always carry my home with me. I will remember the places and the people who made those places worthwhile for the rest of my life, regardless of where said life takes me.

And for all of the deficiencies that come with home (******* UBER-banning, De Wever-voting, bigoted, sexist, racist bastards), there are some aspects that are very hard to let go of. I miss my friends. I miss my mum and my dad and my brothers and sisters. I miss some of the little things, like the foundations of the old pier that someone decided to tear down while I was in France this summer or the hundreds of little paths that run all through the lakelands near my dad's house. The view of the forrests, looking out of my grandmother's gardens and the ridiculous music of De Weerelt.

Ever the nostalgic, I could see all of the benefits associated with a forced move back home. And yet for all of this, I simply couldn't. I still can't.

I can't go home, not after everything I went through in the last 18 months or so. There are some things waiting for me that I'm simply not ready to face, and I'm seriously starting to doubt whether I ever will be. Sure, I can visit, and I'm already making plans for a trip back home very soon. But only for a couple of days.

Those final few weeks before I moved countries were some of the darkest I've ever gone through. The utter hopelessness of the situation weighed down on me in a way I can't describe, and looking back on that period, I can honestly say I'm surprised I made it out unscathed, or in physical form at least.

I hated the man I'd become and relived every decision that had led me down that path in a constant cyclic motion. I couldn't bear the though of what my future would look like, and to put it nicely, very much considered whether such a future would actually be worth it.

People don't just change because they get up and move. There's no such thing as new beginnings, to paraphrase some more (bonus points if you can guess where the following quote comes from without using the internet).

"With every day we live, we pick up new baggage, baggage we must carry with us for the rest of our lives. There's no dropping it and pretending we are fresh and clean, just because we get off a boat in a new place."

More than just part of who I was came with me to this new place, and as we now live in the 21st century, we're never truly able to create real distance between us and our past, unless we want to. Frankly, I've yet to decide. Faulkner says the past is never dead -- it's not even there. But there's hope here, in this new city, the belief things could be different. For the first time in ages, I'm having some success convincing myself things will be different.

It's the paradox of home, and the saving grace of this city. London is a vast place, and it's mean. Dark, grey, often rainy and it couldn't give a crap about anyone's problems. 7.5 million people live here, and on some level, they all struggle. But because of its size, you can both lose yourself and get lost in it in the blink of an eye. It's possible to be truly invisible here, as you make your way around the city. You take in all of the history (there's quite a bit of that here) and nourish the nerd within (St Barth's! 85% of every Doctor Who episode!). And around every corner, there's bound to be new possibilities. There's always something new waiting, and while I've done my very best to get to know as much as I can about the place in such a short time, I've yet to experience over 99% of it.

Yes, I'd much rather be in France right now. And part of me will always hope there's a way for me to rectifiy some of the mistakes I made, so that one day home will truly be home again. 

But I was always convinced I needed to change the narrative of my life, the way I was living. I needed to stop running from things and start running towards them. And lately, I'm not so sure whether either is the case. I've started to feel like I'm not running anywhere at all. I feel like I'm looking for something, and I don't know what. Maybe I'm looking for myself, to get all teen-drama-queeny about it, or maybe it's the ghost of Christmas past (Dickens ftw). But I can't shake the feeling I need to look, and keep looking, and perhaps one day I'll find.

Not sure how I ended up here. What I was trying to say is that while I miss you all very much, I'd rather not be coming home anytime soon if I can avoid it. I can't do it, and it's not you. It's 25 years worth of bad decisions, broken promises, shattered dreams and me reading too many books and watching too much TV to realise life doesn't do happy endings. So perhaps I need to do some growing up before I get to rejoin you. Three months ago I chose exile, and my sentence isn't over yet.

I'd like to end this week's entry with a double shout-out: First of all, to Steven Moffat. Before Sherlock and Doctor Who, this genius created Coupling and Joking Apart, and while seemingly everyone knows the former, the latter might have become one of my all-time favourite TV shows in a very short space of time. Both shows have really brightened these last couple of weeks and are well worth a watch if you're looking for your fix following the conclusions to How I met Your Mother (which was rubbish) and Community (#sixseasonsandamovie).

Secondly, on Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Next to F. Scott Fitzgerald, Ivan Turgenev and Charles Dickens, all of whom are long dead, no single author has had as much of an impact on my life as the Godfather of Magic Realism. His passing may not have been much of a surprise given his age, but it is still a sad thing nonetheless. I absolutely loved Hundred Years of Solitude, but Love in Times of Cholera is one of my personal bibles, part of a collection of novels I read once every year. I've shed tears over those words on multiple occasions, and in November of last year, at my very lowest point, it was the story of Florentino Ariza that pulled me through.

I would loved to have used quotes of the man himself throughout this entry as opposed to Faulkner (nothing against the latter, obviously), but for some reason, none of them felt right. It does however feel fitting for him to have the final say. I hope you all realise that for all of the miles that currently separate us, I still love you dearly.

“If I knew that today would be the last time I’d see you, I would hug you tight and pray the Lord be the keeper of your soul. If I knew that this would be the last time you pass through this door, I’d embrace you, kiss you, and call you back for one more. If I knew that this would be the last time I would hear your voice, I’d take hold of each word to be able to hear it over and over again. If I knew this is the last time I see you, I’d tell you I love you, and would not just assume foolishly you know it already.” 

Song of the Day: TV on the Radio - Family Tree

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RMv_PuGHSGA