12 February 2011

I don’t care where you’re from, where you’ve been, or where you’re going.

This is how I know that I’ve hit my traveling max, for this is what I think now when someone wants to chat me up.  I simply don’t have the energy for it.  At least not now, not this past week.  Nothing is bad, nothing is wrong, nothing is out of the ordinary.  It’s simply that we are ready to move on to a change of pace and change of scenery after 11 weeks on the road.

Gina is tired of organizing and reorganizing our groceries into plastic bags, carefully writing her surname and dates of stay in black Sharpie on the outside, and hoofing it to and from the kitchen block, jockeying for space in the shared refrigerators.  I have grown weary of living my life so publicly in the women’s restroom, where flossing, brushing, picking, and plucking are seldom done without at least one other pair of eyes watching.  We are both exhausted around planning the next move, the next day, the next destination.

Grungy backpacker vans?  Never need to see another one of them again.  Grown adults walking barefoot in the camp kitchens?  Can skip that too.  The Pull-In-And-Plug-In (i.e., campervan) set?  How I long for a view of the real blue ocean rather than the sea of white side panels with their orange umbilicals.

This is the truth of our travel right now.  We have had a bang-up good time – one of the best – and heaps of great memories to take home with us, and for all of that we are truly grateful and blessed and lucky beyond all fantasy that we have had this chunk of time to see and do and do some more.  And we are tuckered and tired and ready for a break.  New Zealand, you’ve done us right and nearly done us in.