Every trip ends.
Every beginning must have a conclusion. Open parentheses must have a close. Not for the first time, I wished I was the sort of person who could go to the same place, year after year. Like we did when I was a kid. The beach, all the time. First Myrtle Beach, with such regularity that we reserved the following year as we checked out. Then, as money got tight, vacations became a bit more spontaneous, but usually Panama City Beach, because my mom knew someone with a rental property there. Or camping in the Smokies, for a short trip. In my teens, when my dad entered that "dad" phase of working himself to death (and when overtime is double or triple time, who can blame him), he and I would get in the car and drive to Florida. Those were fun trips because we explored; but not so fun because it was just the two of us, something I never understood and still don't.
Maybe all of that is why, today, I take trips to far flung places. So my son will grow up with at least part of his wanderlust satiated. Probably, though, I go to those places because I can't work when I'm deep in a foreign country or riding my bicycle through tall mountain peaks. My dad had it good in that regard; when he left work, he left. There was nothing to take home. My job... not so lucky. If I don't keep up with emails, I risk the eventual accusation of slacking, though that criticism is very passive-aggressive.
So... the last day in Iceland, or the last portion of a day, dawned as had most of the others. Rainy. Dreary. Like the country was daring us to stay, to tolerate the weather which wasn't extreme yet because it was still August. We met that challenge head on by sleeping as late as we could, cleaning up our Air B&B, and driving early to return the rental car.
Note: if you rent a car from an off-brand rental company, go very, very early to return it. We arrived at the rental company three hours before our flight; we arrived at the airport just over an hour later.
Checking in to Wow Air, I realized I had only paid for a checked bag on the first half of our trip, not the return; it's not that difficult, honestly, to pay for a checked bag. But I had made the assumption that if I paid for it in one direction, it covered the other direction as well. I was wrong. That meant waiting in a line, paying some money, and then finally going through security. Reykjavik airport is a very efficient place, like most things in the country, and even though they had to inspect my bag, and even though we bought some alcohol at the Duty Free shop (which was cheaper than buying in the city... by a long shot), we arrived at the gate in plenty of time.
Our plane to Boston was like our plane over: three seats to a side, small, with no real amenities. I almost paid for food because our snacks ran out. But I didn't, even though the prices were reasonable, because I couldn't get the spirit of Iceland out of my mind.
I wanted to stay on the plane and go back.
Find a way.
Live. No. SURVIVE. That's what you do there. Living is the easy part; humans have been living since the dawn of time. Surviving is the hard part. It's in our blood. It's why people in cities create gardens in the tiniest of spaces: they want to get their hands dirty, to feel the earth, to struggle just a little and satisfy that carnal desire to interact with the world. Because our jobs don't give us that satisfaction. We don't get to see any accomplishment like you do when you grow asparagus or chop wood. No RFP response I've ever written has left me with any satisfaction. I don't complete business requirements and look back and say, "That's a wonderful thing I did." But configure a system, or perform complex data analysis... that's much akin to mowing my yard, in the cro magnon parts of my mind. There is a sense of accomplishment.
And that's why I go to adventurous places.
On my trip I skipped a rock across the North Sea. Well, threw it because the water was too rough to skip. But I did that. I gazed upon glaciers that could very well be gone when my grandchildren are my age. I walked on earth formed from cold lava. I saw the point at which two continents divided in their millennia-long divorce. These things I cannot do at work. No SalesForce case provides that experience. I can query until my heart stops beating and it will never provide the same titillation as standing in the drizzle, looking at a farmstead that has existed since before my ancestors even thought of escaping to the New World.
Back in the US, we drove to our hotel and prepared for the worst-yet-best day of my life: the day I watched my son turn into a Man as he headed off to college. That's another blog post, another chapter of my life, that might not ever get put down on paper. So to speak.
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