there and back again and there.

I haven't yet digested the fact that I just spent the last two and a half weeks in Europe. It hasn't really hit me, and maybe there isn't supposed to be an impending big blow. It's 1am and there are two kids on the floor: one absorbed in People magazine, and one reading the Bible before he goes to sleep. I'm here writing in my blog because writing in my blog, writing anything at all, gives me solace. Perhaps there's nothing to write about my trip at all. Perhaps travel isn't anything more than a nice time - because it was definitely fulfilling in that aspect. Maybe it's an affirmation of our ability to do anything we want whenever we want, an affirmation that the world is not, in fact, a little box, but a big open playground.

I must say, however, that the last few days I've been back in London, I'm surprised how much English is spoken around me. American accents are no longer grating, but a fact of life. When I say 'sorry' I keep thinking I've said the wrong word, that I should be saying 'pardonne' or some European version of the word. Whenever I say 'thanks' or let 'cheers' slip, I think I should be saying 'grazie,' never knowing whether to pronounce it with two syllables or three, and finally settling on three.

Why does a simple list of the cities and countries I've been to seem less than adequate? Because anybody can visit big cities. Fine, here it is: Amsterdam, Zaandam, Paris, Munich, Dakow, Vienna, Como, Bellagio, Milan. Ask me about it, and I'll tell you. The days and nights in these different locales, on buses, in train stations, are reserved for what was written in the time and place, tucked safely away in the designated travel journal.

London holds me in its lovely open palm for only a day more: I'm off to Japan.