Somewhere, in the back of my mind, barried under years of different city maps, public transport systems, currency exchange rates, airline baggage restrictions, airport regulations, and making sure batteries are charged and everything is in the right place... there is a small place that reminds me of something... something important.
I get sick when I come to Ireland.
If only I had dug that section of my brain out and remembered, in a way which inspired a premptive action...
But I didn't. I've been really sick for a week. The last few days I was "feeling better"... but still couldn't drag my body out of bed long enough to do ever many things. I still saw some of the people I wanted to... even if there are some lunch dates which are more a haze than anything else.
It is frustrating, deeply. Yes, this time in Ireland, Northern Ireland and Scotland, was supposed to be for rest and rejuvination. But not hard core recovery. I have not gotten the deeper rest and tme to think and pray that I wanted... but then maybe we don't always get what we want. Perhaps all we ever get is just enough, just what we need.
I am learning though. As I've traveled through this trip, I've started making some rules for my traveling... as well as a list of pereferences. It's that constant realization that I am not 20 years old anymore, that that is ok, and that I can actually live as an adult. That's pretty cool, and a good, healthy realization to have.
Someone asked me this evening how many places I have stayed during this trip. I didn't even bother to count, I just said a lot. I think I've reached that point. I think I need to embace the fact I professionally travel, and that it doesn't matter how many times I've been somewhere, or exactly how many beds I've slept in, or flights I've taken... no one honestly cares.
I'm tired. I hope that tomorrow goes well, that I have a clear enough head.
Because ready or not, I fly on Wedneday... back to Africa for 9 months.
And actaully, I'm really ok with that.
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