Until Next Time

I cried. Hard. My excuse? Looking into the sunset for too long on my way to Auckland International Airport. It hit me like a ton of feathers; the feeling of getting your heart crushed by the most beautiful thing in the world. The situation was all too familiar, like that when I left Hawaii...the nostalgia, the confusion, wondering if it had really happened or if I was simply dreaming. I boarded the 777, an aircraft significantly smaller than the one I had originally left on, and dragged my lifeless body to seat 47C. I was immediately, monotonously greeted by an overweight older gentleman, breathing heavily, sitting in my seat. His wife casually leaned over and told me he had claustrophobia issues, and asked if I could squish my 5'11" body toward the window seat. Something New Zealand has taught me? "No worries". I sat down, but was moved yet again. I can't complain this time around...I had two seats to myself. Epic win.

I was pushed around, scolded, and scoffed at as soon as my goofy, relief ridden smile exited the plane. I would have never thought reverse culture shock actually existed, but I was taken back, disappointed, and utterly determined to make good use of the 10 hour layover I had. I hopped a bus to Santa Monica, long board in hand with a desire to live the typical California dream. The bus broke down half way to the pier (of course), and we were redirected to another stop along the way. The couple next to me rolled up a blunt on the side of the road, whipped out a brown paper bag, and kindly asked me if I cared to join them for a smoke and drink. I declined, completely sketched out and eagerly wishing the new bus would come around. It was from that moment on I realized that Los Angeles is truly a strange, strange place....the wide-eyed staring, the random questions, the street performers. Quite a sight. Despite the oddity that ensued throughout the afternoon, I managed to make it to the beach and sleep on top of my long board, waking up sunburned, revitalized, and unfamiliar with my surroundings. It's as if I'm living one vivid dream after another, my body never flinching to return me back to reality. I drained the life out of my iPod, playing everything and anything that would remotely reflect the mood I was in. It's dead.

I'm in the airport, desperate for a tube of toothpaste, staring at the departure screen as my flight continues to be delayed later, and later. The destination flashes obnoxiously, sending me on a wild goose chase to find the right gate. I'll have to check again soon, being that Washington Dulles is staring me in the face. I don't want to go to Washington. I heard it's raining in New York. Quaint.

I hereby declare this portion of my life 'closed'. It's been real.