The 13th Hour

In thirteen hours I will be on a flight to Shanghai. I want to come home so desperately, but I still feel as if there is a great deal that I am missing out on. I have not seen the Great Wall. I have not seen the stone army. I have not seen someone do calligraphy. Working and traveling is a terribly combination. To be in a place and not be able to see her character, her inner beauty, is a crime. I need to learn to add a few days onto the end of the trip for my own use, but then again I would be sad and lonely without some sort of companionship, and bringing SPF along would not be that easy. Perhaps someday it will all make sense. Perhaps someday I will travel freely, speak the language, and be able to absorb a culture instead of smelling it only through the car window.

Ahh, but I do return. And don't get me wrong. I am glad to be coming back. I am tired, that is certain, and both yesterday and today were close to fourteen hour days. I am running on adrenaline out of the fear that I will not wake up in time or will forget my passport or one of my bags. But, alas, I have packed everything except for this computer and my toiletries, which I will pack after I get ready in the morning. My clothes are out, my luggage rearranged to hold only those things that I need on the plane (as opposed to the trip out when my carry-on held two days clothes and essential toiletries as well as all audit documentation.) I will set my cell phone to alarm (which is charging now) and I will be on my way with my American companion tomorrow at 11:20 local time.

Is it weird that I feel like hugging the bell boy?