A hug broken by the sickening taste of goodbye. I firmly walk towards the departure gates and prevent myself from turning my head around to prolong the pain. I do not let her see me crying though I am aware she already is. I sit in my living room and look at the sunlight that warms the room in mid-September.
The furniture is shining under a coat of polishing and the kitchen countertops are too pristine to venture for a cup of coffee.
I have just spent hours cleaning the entire house and, just like months of cobwebs were finally destroyed, I aim to dust off the thoughts of recent events in my head. Travel seemed to always do the trick. Whenever I felt suffocated by gruelling training sessions, I knew a competition abroad was coming. Whenever the future shaped pointless, I packed my rucksack and ventured to the unknown.
Whenever my reality was too heavy to bear, I jumped on a plane to think. And travel works in strange circles, and memories fight for room in the swirl of the moment. I rush to Dublin Airport on a crisp sunny evening and in a couple of hours I land in Bordeaux. No French fanfare or food on this occasion as the flight delay ensures I make it to my airport hotel to check in and scavenge for the remains of a Friday night.
In Bordeaux late at night, I reminisce of my orange-tinted night walks in Santa Monica, the sad line up of fast food neon lights clinging onto freshly laid pavements almost perforating through any appetite left.
