There will be time, there will be time.

I remember things in snapshots of time; not just flashes of places, disconnected and disjointed, but pieces of emotion, of sensations.

I remember clearly in some places, hazily in others. I can barely remember what we did in Cork, but I remember clearly the way that Salzburg felt, how it tasted and smelled. I remember the nights from traveler’s hell, remember the heat, the cold. I remember the crazy showers and disgusting toilets; the smell of Paris and the grit of Prague. I remember the name of the hostel where we stayed in Berlin. I remember watching the World Cup in Germany and Ireland; Paris, Brussels, Bruges, Amsterdam. I remember crowded pubs and long lines.

Not only do I remember these things from these past travels but when one thought leads to another, I remember other dreams and half-imagined fantasies. My two trips to Italy, the trip to the UK. I wonder, sometimes, as I go through everyday life, whether or not the traveling was real. It seems a fanciful dream at times, so achingly real and yet so distant and dreamlike. In a heartbeat, though, I would give up every possession I have except what I carry with me. I would, in a heartbeat, drop everything and go.

Some of you might think that’s crazy and half-cocked and that I should probably get my head checked. Others might think, “Sounds like fun, but the logistics would be a nightmare…” All I know is that for a taste of what I had these past few summers, I would gladly and readily set aside “normal” life for a wandering one.

For the moment, at least, I would get up and go back. Back to shitty hostels and bad food; pasta and bread and not enough protein or green veg. Back to a different city every week, a different language, a different culture. The chance to see what I only dream of, what I’ve already dreamt that I’ve seen.

I remember Versailles with its oppressive heat and crowds, and I remember a night in the Brigg train station, freezing and hungry and tired. I remember anger and frustration and sheer panic at times. I remember running harder and faster than ever in my life whilst carrying 50 pounds of kit. I remember sketchy busses and awkward seat-mates. Trying to figure out what the label on the can says in the grocery store. Figuring out what money you need today, and whether or not you’ll be coming back to spend any extra. Nights in and nights out, pub crawls and concerts. I remember new friends and fast enemies. I remember long waits and longer trains. Kotna Hora and the Eiffel tower. The cliffs of Moher and the beauty of the Spanish countryside. A Spanish hospital and Dachau camp.

I’ve not gotten to all the adventures we had, and I hate having to pick and choose what to talk about, what to leave behind. I know you’re waiting for the rest of the trip, but so am I. Writing about what happened this summer, this adventure into the great wide world, is both pleasure and pain. I love to tell the stories, but it hurts to think of them for too long because I know that, at least at the moment, there are only the adventures I can write about. There are plenty of them awaiting me, out there somewhere. Until then, I only have the wonderful and painful memories of good times, and those not-so-great ones too. Here in my blog I can relate to you stories of only the good, or selective pieces of the bad. I can leave you with any story and leave out all the rest; in my mind, though, I replay each moment to its end, following the narrative as only a dreamer, a writer, an artist can.

So pardon me as I step back into the various pieces of my travels, as I relate to you the echoes of those masterpieces. There will be more to read, I promise. I just ask that you be patient, and that you read and enjoy these posts as much as I love to write them and to share my experiences.