Being the insatiable philosopher that I am (read as ‘overthinking paranoid’), I couldn’t help but enter this meditative state of mind as I booked my flight to Malta this week. After a good deal of tempering with the flight booking website (blame it on the below-average wifi connection I had in my hotel room this particular week), I popped inside my bed and dwelled upon whether my time away from home has actually served me good. ‘Did you learn anything from all of this, Lara?’ I asked myself, probably preampting the three dozen similar questions I’m about to answer when I land back home.
Deep inside, I hoped I had learnt a lot of things because I really feel like a completely different person than the one I was way back in January. The first thing that came to mind was my newfound cooking skills. Yes, I know, I’m far from becoming a five-star Michelin cooking God, but I now realise how hilariously naive I was when I used to refer to plain toast as ‘something I had cooked’. When I left home, all those aware of my very primitive relationship with the cooker – mostly confined to very sexy actions like ‘boiling’ and ‘covering a pan with a lid’ – secretly feared my premature demise due to malnourishment. Well, I kind of did as well. Moreover, when I moved out I wanted to take the opportunity to make healthier choices as opposed to my mother’s verytasty but oh-so-carb-rich methods. Now, I can feed myself quite well. Not only haven’t I starved myself to death, but I’ve learnt to make many dishes, which despite their obvious easy cooking requirements, are of a filling, healthier nature. So, I can cook now. I can still boil and cover a pan with a lid as well, in case you were wondering.
As I’m also sure you have realised from my multiple check-ins and travelling-related updates, there’s been a lot of moving around the continent these past six months. I’m what many people call a ‘jetsetter’, I guess. I have to admit that even though this has been on my lifestyle wishlist for years on end, surviving it was particularly tasking. Let’s get this straight. Up to a few months ago, I was a total travelling pussy. Miao! I caught the bus on my own – for like, a ten-minute trip, mind you! – for the first time when I was seventeen. The fear of getting lost, forgetting my ticket, losing my luggage, ending up in a Home Alone dramatic scenario and other similar travelling malfunctions were always at the back of my mind. To a certain point, all of the aforementioned as well as other ridiculous fears including pretty much every single noise I hear on an airplane -including the one made by the flight attendant as she gracefully gives us yet another unidentifiable meal – limited me immensely travel-wise. I had travelled to Brussels on my own in July for my exam, as well as twice in October, but even then, I wasn’t completely alone. Or else, I had every single detail of my trip planned out to avoid any unnecessary panic attacks. Then I went to London and it all changed.
Here I am right now, sitting in an airport as I wait for my flight and I’m not asking the Lord to forgive my sins because I fear I won’t make it to my destination. I don’t think I had any option but to ‘get real’ and ‘grow up’ in this aspect. When you have to travel every week, react graciously to delays, deal with uncooperative check-in assistants, continuously explain to border control police that it’s okay for people not to look identical to their passport photo taken in 2006, you either ‘man up’ or ‘go home’. Quite literally, really. I still have to work on the way my heart rate speeds exponentially during a plane landing, but I’m getting there. At least I have less of a constipated face as we approach land. Well, I like to think I do (and you should too).
One thing I thought would work very differently was the whole idea of ‘finding yourself’ just because you’re miles away from home. In reality, you do find yourself, granted, but the entire process is not as dreamy and ideal as Hollywood portrays it to be. Frankly, if anything, I lose myself. Completely. It got so bad at one point that I could barely recognise myself anymore. I had no single idea of what the eff I was doing. I swear. I like to justify this whole situation by reminding myself of how drastic my change was. One day I was this very sheltered young woman, with eyes and finances only exclusively devoted to clothing, the next I was trying to get used to two countries (until a third one, came in, at a later stage), try to share an apartment without letting my personality spill too much over the place, I moved to a city I had never been to before (yes, shame on me), as well as trying to meet all the expectations so many people had thrust on me because ‘Lara is finally doing this.’ I don’t want to burst anyone’s bubble, but the very much coveted moment of self-realisation only came this week. After nearly half a year. It can be shockingly delayed and many times you go to bed thinking, when the hell is this going to happen? Yeah, totally. Yet I also believe that when you are in this lost state – and you listen to songs about being lost and eat cookies before going to sleep – you become aware of who you really are. You also put on a kilo or two due to the cookies.
So this is for those tens – maybe even hundreds – of Maltesers (not the chocolates!) who are always telling themselves and everyone within a one mile radius that ‘one day, I’ll leave’. Just do it. If you can sustain yourself, take the risk. Looking back, I know I would have never been able to forget myself if I had spent yet another day grumbling and complaining about feeling limited in my country without taking any action. So if you really want to do this, work it out.
If you then become aware that this is not the thing for you, fret not, at least you would have become a survivor in the kitchen and a knight at heart. Dramatic conclusion, kaboom!