Off to see the sisters
I woke up as the sun was reddening; and that was the one distinct time in my life, the strangest moment of all, when I didn’t know who I was — I was far away from home, haunted and tired with travel, in a cheap hotel room I’d never seen, hearing the hiss of steam outside, and the creak of the old wood of the hotel, and footsteps upstairs, and all the sad sounds, and I looked at the creacked high ceiling and really didn’t know who I was for about fifteen strange seconds. I wasn’t scared; I was just somebody else, some stranger, and my whole life was a haunted life, the life of a ghost.
— Jack Kerouac, On the Road
I’m carrying too much stuff: I have two pairs of trousers I don’t wear and whose seats have almost worn out; two pairs of headphones; four button-down shirts—two cotton, two linen; a portable game console I bought on a whim and didn’t use more than two days; a pair of rubber-soled moccasins whose soles are peeling off at the toes; a wool sweater; so many usb cables; two bottles of face wash and two bottles of sunscreen, because they were “buy one get one free”; five decks of cards, one waterproof and one Neapolitan; and I have to carry all of it on my person to go from point to point. No wonder I always arrive a sweaty mess. At least I have my towels: one large for bathing and one small to carry with me in the day.
The easiest solution is to give things away, but some of the things I’d like to keep for another time: the wool sweater, for example, I wore every day when it was cold; in June, though, it’s not so useful. The game console I’ll give to my sisters when I see them this weekend; I felt guilty playing it, anyway: what a waste of time. But there’re three of them, so they can play together; that’s what video games are for.
When I set out to travel Europe I had never really traveled before: I had been places, but always with family and for short stays; I had never lived life on the road, or on the rails. I left Scotland on the 28th of last September and didn’t know what I was going to do. Now it’s the 4th of June, and I’m still learning. I still have too many things; I still have to run to take the train; I still spend too much money. But it’s only been a few months: people have been traveling for years and years.
I hope that I’ll be able to travel for years and years. I feel terrible about Xerxes: I’d love to have him back with me, but I’d also like to continue traveling. I’m not sure how to navigate that. Maybe at some point I’ll bring him back to Europe with me, but until then, I’m not sure. He’s very happy at Kathleen’s house, though I wish that she didn’t feed him kibble. I’ll miss him sorely next year, but I don’t think that I’ll be able to stay in Chicago. I’d like to travel in Latin America some of the time; I can do the course remotely, which is a tremendous source of flexibility. On the other hand, it’d be nice to be able to meet in person. We’ll see how I do: once it gets below 5°C I’ll be done. I imagine that I’ll stay through the end of the calendar year and then move on. But I feel bad about Xerxes: I promised I’d take care of him, and I miss him. The things we leave behind, the mistakes we make.
Even now my father and step-mother and sisters are on their way to meet me in Verona. Who will I be when they arrive? Will they know me? What will they think of who I’ve become? And my sisters: they’re fourteen now. Who are they? What are they like? We’ll be strangers to one another, haunting each other’s lives from a distance. And for a brief, intense moment we’ll be together (all six of us) in Verona, and then we’ll go our seperate ways and live life as strangers again. But they’ll take some things from me back with them: the game console, a few books. I’ll have a little less to carry, and they’ll have some reminder of who I am.
