The thirty-seventh note
13h flight and other thoughts on returning
I’ve taken many planes, taken many trips, but this one… This one’s been tinted. This one has felt different.
I went to sleep on Sunday after a day full of love and warmth. S fell asleep as quickly as always, his body around mine, my head on his arm, my mind awake. And it kept staying awake, my eyes closed but no sleep taking over me. It hadn’t struck midnight yet so I wasn’t worried. My mind would calm down eventually. But as the hours passed this nervousness grew, no sleeping allowed in my body. No sleeping allowed ever again- or so it felt like. I mentally checked everything I had to do before heading to the airport: which bags had what, what phone was charged, what I had to do once the alarm rang at 6 in the morning. An hour early in case we were awake enough to kiss and say goodbye one last time. I’ve always had a need for underlining goodbyes. Just one more goodbye. One more kiss.
My eyes kept closed but I wasn’t sleeping.
When I finally felt like my mind was settling, easing into it, I woke up startled. 4 am. 2 more hours. And then again. I’d slept through my alarm and now had 20 minutes until my Uber came to pick me up. That nervousness was still deep in my body.
This trip is different because it’s the end of an era. Because this trip should’ve come round months ago. Because this trip was never meant to be like so. But here it is. Closing time. This trip is different because I’m different. And because I’m the one who’s different, I guess that’s nerve-wracking. Self-conscious to the bone, huh?
Hello everyone. New friends, welcome, old friends, how ya doing? And readers who aren’t friends, well, hi to you too, chivalric as ever. I write from 10970 meters of altitude, at 832 kilometres per hour. We’ve travelled 1298km and there’s still 10 hours to go. I forgot to download movies and episodes to watch on my iPad. And this airline I’m flying on charges you 6 euros for shitty headphones. There’s a cowboy at the end of my row and no one sitting in-between us, so I’ve taken a nap and will take a few more. He’s watching Interstellar.
There’s something really strange about closing periods of your life, making choices and making moves. If you’ve read me these last few months, you know I’ve been floating around, here and there, but if you know me- which you could easily get to via the compilation of this newsletter- you know I’ve been craving this idea of home, chasing the concept, its warmth, its wholeness. Holiness. Obsessed without commitment. The answer has been right in front of me for a few months now, probably for longer than I’d like to admit. But I’ve been resisting it. Returning, coming back, moving back, has created this pit of doubt that’s been… daunting. Until now I guess.
So, here’s some news: Even though I’m on my way to Los Angeles, I am moving back to Madrid. I’ve had an empty apartment sitting in LA since January. And here we are in April when I will be making it home for a very short period of time. I am thinking of it as a pad, a little get-away but it was supposed to be home for a while. Tying down Los Angeles only pushed me towards Madrid more intensely. Funny how things are. Funny how things always are. It seems like if I set my mind to something stubbornly, I’m always pushed in the opposite direction. Going to live in LA? Madrid will pull you its way. Not looking for a relationship? A freckled face will sweep you off your feet.
A couple months ago I had dinner at my friend Lourdes’ house in Madrid and she read us our tarot cards and we talked and sat in conversation in quite a unique way. It became clear that Madrid was calling me, over and over. Kept tying me back. I didn’t want to face the idea of coming back to the place I was raised. Nothing about the idea of returning made me feel comfortable or good. Was I giving up? Was I failure? Am I? A failure? Am I making the right choice? Am I making the right decision? This ‘right decision’ concept has always haunted me. I’ve always looked for affirmation in others as to if the decisions I was making made sense. Even if it seems like things are clear in my head, even if I have goals, even if I am capable of looking forward and knowing what I want- the ‘what if?’ always scared me.
But hearing Lourdes spill it out so clearly and without judgement felt different. Everyone around me seemed to think having Madrid as my base again made sense. Everything around me seemed to be telling me that being in Madrid made sense. Work. Friends. Love. Family. Comfort. Fun. What else do I need? In part, I was still holding on to the idea I had of life a year ago. In part, I still am I guess.
My apple watch buzzes on my left wrist, a reminder to stand up. There’s still 9 hours to go until I land. Somehow, this flight feels like the longest flight I’ve ever taken. I stand up and walk up and down my aisle. I use the bathroom, look in the mirror, my hair is dirty. I walk up and down the aisle. Look at the other passengers, stretch at the very end of the plane. I touch my toes, stretch my arms, my legs. I’ll repeat this a few more times. I go back to my seat, 29H.
A year ago I was fresh in Los Angeles post appendicitis. The truth is that the idea of what my life was supposed to look like died about a year ago. To be exact, 11 months ago. After moving to New York and finishing my MA I didn’t have any plans for myself, any goals that weren’t work related. I’d settled into comfort and into my ex’s life somehow. I wasn’t thinking about what I wanted, but more so, what I wanted for both of us. What we wanted. Or what I thought we did. And so Los Angeles kind of made sense- running from the cold, running from tiny apartments, running from our relationship, running from the inevitable: that I had lost myself. I’d sunk to the very back of life, of this plane. Like when people grab the back of your airplane seat to get up. It bends backwards unexpectedly like one is falling into the abyss. It feels careless and selfish. Yanked towards their life, towards their hands, towards the back. I hate when people do so- I’ve felt more frustration than usual on this trip, anxiety mainly at fault. I confess my sinful thoughts and angered feelings: I see selfishness and dumb down humans all over airports and airplanes. I become a snob when traveling, I do. I become a version of myself that I don’t love: I judge, I complain, I walk fast, I huff and I puff. This, heightened by the nervousness I was feeling today and the not-lined-up travel issues I was having, creates a ticking bomb that only explodes within me- and unluckily for my mother and my boyfriend, they get the waves too. Turbulence makes everyone get back to their seat and the ladies in front of me whisper a little quieter now. The man behind me stops grabbing my seat.
So, what is it about returning that makes me feel like I am failing? Was it that I lost myself and my goals? Probably, but it’s been a while since I got back on track. If I’m honest with myself I can see the answer bubbling in my head- when things shift we can all get a little bit uncomfortable. And the idea I had of myself a year ago was so different to the Chloe that’s living now.
I’ve been living away from Spain for 10 years now. A decade in the making. It seems right to shift towards the flow. Shift towards what’s calling me. I’m tired of resisting. I’m tired of pretending this doesn’t seem right. I know it does. It’s scary, to return. I’ve never lived in Spain as an adult. Maybe fear of this unknown known world is what makes me feel doubt. Doubt is just fear masked as someone who thinks they’re confident.
Airplane wine truly sucks. I think some of these ladies are drunk. They speak loudly, very loudly.
For now, I’ll focus on what I’m in LA to do: Write, think, work, see friends and enjoy the sun- on my own. Maybe buy a bottle of really delicious wine. In no particular order. See you soon.
Love, Chloé
Love LA, love Madrid and love your restless inquisitive mind. Come see me when you pass by!