At first, I was disappointed with our Skype conversation. He was tired from a long day at work; my feet ached from miles of sight-seeing, and longed for a cold shower and a warm bed. I wished he’d had more excitement for the things I’d seen, more of an enthusiasm for my endeavors. Instead, he could only muster the energy to repeat that home was lonely without me next to him each night and each morning, how he anxiously awaited my return to him.
I felt cheated. I wanted more passion and curiosity regarding my travels. I wanted to feel a genuine interest (and maybe even a bit of envy) over the things I’ve seen here. Our conversation left me craving something deeper.
This entire trip has left me craving something deeper. I’ve been harboring a secret anger at myself for feeling this way: longing for the days to slip by in a blur until my return home to him finally arrives. How could I want nothing more than to leave here, the beautiful city of Prague, for him? What kind of life do I live where I would rather spend each and every predictable day waking up and falling asleep next to a familiar lover and friend, rather than in some new exotic city?
And as I lay there, alone in the darkness of a shitty Czechoslovakian dormitory, I thought maybe that life would be a different kind of wonderful.
