Knock, knock.
Or is it Ping Ping?
Either or, mind if I come back in?
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Forgive me, it’s been 3 1/2 months since my last post.
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To be fair, I have no excuse for my absence.
No drama. No injury. No sharing how formally nice people are inexplicably losing their manners.
Nope, none of that.
Instead, I have simply been away filling my days doing two of the following things: Working and Living.
How cool is that?
I know, right?
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To recap.
In April I moved to my new flat, after finding myself stuck in a 12-month lease in a suburban community that I am still convinced is a gateway recruiting office for a Republican cult.
New Casa Finnegan is up in the clouds in a revitalised 1920s old railroad industry town, now filled with residences and people, with a peak of the river off to my left, and a clear east-to-west view of the moon and stars and satellites above and city lights stretching to the horizon below.
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Mid-May saw me back in the west country of England, in Somerset.
That’s where I take my work with me and hang out with some of the nicest people in the world who make me feel like I too am one of the nicest people in the world.
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I was supposed to stay until the first week of July.
However, on my last night I just wasn’t feeling it. So, I rang up Delta and asked if they’d mind moving my dates to the right for another 4 weeks.
They didn’t mind and they did, and I even got a $200 credit.
There are many neat things to being an adult. Next to helping others, being a self-sufficient human being tops the list.
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It was worth it.
I shared some more. I laughed some more. I hugged more. I went out a few more times. I walked in the park a couple more mornings. I listened to and uncovered more stories.
Work was also good. I produced a ton of cool work projects whilst there and more, and that too was awesome.
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I also went back to a 12th century Abbey in east Wales, and sat on a bench staring at the crumbling cathedral in peaceful silence.
If you ever get the chance, Tintern Abbey is a standing historical gem on the banks of the River Wye, protected on all sides by Welsh emerald hills.
If able, let your imagination go with the monks walking the hallways on a cold November day in 1248 where the fire only burns in a single chamber twice a day.
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It was SO worth staying that even the 3-day trek to get back stateside I can’t even make into a good pub story.
But I will say it was nuts.
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Schiphol Airport (Amsterdam), a European international gateway to just about every spot in the world, had a complete meltdown which saw most of their Friday connecting flights going out on Sunday.
As the departure boards started going red, I literally felt bad for every employee working there that day.
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A saving grace about me is that I am rather solid when it comes to interruptions and hang ups.
I don’t know why exactly that is … but there have been enough times when this has come out and over me, that I now consider it a reliable trait.
And with that, every abandoned gate, every queue, every wait, every re-booking became just a thing one had to do.
I took every delay and cancellation with stride. Many did not. There were for sure lots of tears and anger from lots of travel weary people. And rightly.
With my easy access to my Zen, I was spared.
Like the song says: No going over it. No getting around it. It’s just something that we have to get through.
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And with that I chatting it up with custom officers at least three times over 3 hours. I must have walked 10 miles going back and forth through terminals. I stood outside the airport twice amongst the weed smokers waiting for shuttles, and cold called at least 6 hotel airports looking for a free room on a national holiday weekend.
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The second night I managed to snag at 5:30 pm the last available room in the last nearest hotel within 10 miles from the airport.
It’s a single, the reception lady on the phone said almost apologetically.
I told her: Oh, I don’t mind.
And I meant it with all of my heart.
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Anyway, on Sunday evening I made it back to the new casa carrying a set of hotel amenity bags and sans luggage, which arrived that Thursday morning.
Back to Zen and the art of travelling … I knew 12 hours into that weekend that there was no way my black rolling suitcase was going on the same adventure as me.
I wrote it off as a complete loss until it was dropped it off 4 days later; a wee bit bruised but intact.
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And that’s been me these last couple of months.
Oh, side note, I was recognised for my contributions at work the Friday I got back. A total surprise, it was a touching acknowledge at what has been a year-long effort over a rather expansive work rainbow.
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I’ll be heading back to England in November.
In the meantime, however, it’s time to unpack these boxes. Time to invite my things to be see and enjoyed again by my hands and eyes.
New furniture starts arriving Wednesday.
Happy Monday.