Five Weeks In, Five Weeks Out

Five weeks in, we nearly had everyone’s name memorized.

And the ones we couldn’t put our finger on, we coyly awaited for an opportunity to listen—What was her name again? How do you pronounce Jiexi? And Daire?—trying our best to collect context clues, in between sips of Pilsner. We saved our temporary address in Prague in our phones, quickly assigning new labels to new places: Creepy Baby Tower apartments are that-a-way, meet a Belgicka for a party, bring a jacket for K10—we’re definitely not in the heat of Lucifer anymore. We sang the tunes of our novel freedom, but its melody was still being finagled. Our roots were still somewhere between where we came from, and where we were, where we were headed, where we had left to see. Our suitcases—all shiny and ready for the journey ahead—hadn’t met the bumps of the budget airlines, or the web of mud and side trips. We smiled at people whose faces we first met on Facebook, whose character and whose friendship were still being explored. We had exhausted ourselves preparing to bid adieu to what we knew in search of the planet—and with so many days, weeks and months left—time was on our side.

Five weeks out, we wish time would stop.

Because, we can’t imagine any other solution. Because change is so heavy—though hey, we do it all the time. The early hiccups we navigated months ago seem like easy-peasy, second-nature checkboxes now: download the language, find the grocery store, navigate to the workspace, check the WiFi and the water—and hey guys, where are we meeting for drinks tonight? Who has the biggest apartment? Let’s go there. We unpack our things—most of which we didn’t have a year ago. Most of which we realized weren’t necessary, as long as we had one another. As we have shed not only those items we deemed so vital before, but our previous mindsets, too. In return, we unload our happiness and the comfort of the unknown we’ve collected—through our passports, our airline miles, and through the privilege of learning to love one another. Through all of those ebbs and flows, all of the arguments derived from little sleep, of the toll that constant travel and a lackluster diet has on our spirit. We fight incessantly—as siblings do—but forgive generously. After all—we have places to see, things to do. But we have to do them together. You in? Cool, I’ll add you to the WhatsApp group.

Five weeks in, the ice was still thin, the eggshells were still cracking under our manicured toes.

Our hair was still freshly cut and colored, our jeans still fit us. We had travel-sized perfume and two deodorants for the road. No matter how well traveled we were, none of us were schooled on what it meant to move in a pack. We didn’t know how to manage the personalities—or how to judge them. How to mold within them, without losing ourselves. After all, we still had 10 months left with these people: better start making connections. We vowed to ask that person we felt we could be friends with to dinner. But we gave ourselves a break: if not this month, the next we’ll set a date. We’ll put in our calendars, we’ll make it happen. Friendships then were still lacking glue, our loyalties had yet to be cemented. Our dinners still ran 20 deep. We were in search of our people. Whoever they were, we’d make them our friends. There was no rush.

Five weeks out, there are still people we wish we would have talked to more.

Actually followed up to go shopping with. Or to meet for coffee. Maybe a side trip. But even the ones who we know by a few facts and a brief history, we’d still share nearly anything with. Sure, I brought these snacks, have them. You look sick, need an imodium? Bali belly got ya? Same. Take this. Because gradually—and yet, quite suddenly—we deemed these people, those semi-strangers in Prague… our family. Or tramily. Or best friends. However you want to word it—they’re all synonymous with Yugen. We all answer to this name, like we would our own, turning our heads for the next direction, the next bus to nap through the mountains, the next flight we run to catch, the next drinking game we’re about to begin. Yugen, c’mon! It is the catcall that transformed, flipped, tossed and turned our world—quite literally—upside down. And as it rotates on its axel yet again, propelling us to our feet, forcing us to stand solo, we wonder who will answer when we call for Yugen again. As we get closer to the reality of the earth, to another chapter—we resist the landslide that’s begging… Wait, you’re coming with me, right?

Five weeks in, five weeks seemed like a long time.

Much longer than those four weeks in Croatia that sped by with 40-person dinners, night swims and Ubering for oversized Kombis after far too many Karlovačkos. A new country with new customs and a new language meant we felt the need to rattle through a list of must-sees: climb that bell tower, tour that park, walk across that bridge. See it all—but don’t worry, you have an extra seven days. An extra handful of hours to fit in more time with more Yugens. A few more mornings where you’ll wake up hungover to repeat the work-and-play tango until you collapse. The thought of 100 days on the road seemed like such an impressive stretch of land—something to celebrate, but nowhere within sight. That’s at the end of Lisbon. That’s so far away!

Five weeks out, our 100th day seems like a long time ago.

So does our 200th. And our sixth month. And our eighth month. But we don’t call them that, we don’t need to. As we attempted to hold a basic conversation of ‘thanks’ ‘please’ ‘cheers’ and ‘bathroom’ in each language, we subconsciously developed our own. Months aren’t December or February—but Malaysia and Buenos Aires. We don’t need exact words or addresses to label our favorite watering holes or the workspaces, our homes or the trips we took together. Things that held no meaning to anyone but our sacred little group could strike up a memory in a moment: Bali House, Aspen, Parlor, Noah’s Ark, Beer Olympics, Zoe & Yellow, Thanksgiving, this, that, all of it. Or even, the contents of our now battered suitcases, backpacks and carry-ons. Our clothes are no longer pieces of fabric we purchased stateside—now they’re dictated by their origin: that jacket we bought in Chile, the sweater from Japan, the elephant pants from Thailand. Our toiletries follow the same rhyme—all with a myriad of labels in symbols and verses—rarely in English—often more worldly than some of the passports of our friends back there. Wherever there is. A glance at our eccentric wardrobes can spring a memory. Can have us starting our sentences with “That time.” Where a few lines can erupt our laugher, as it tugs our hearts, reminding us that like all of the months that passed by, so will this year. So will these blissful—and complicated and stingingly stunning—moments we will ourselves to crystalize. Crossing everything we have to never forget how it feels to be here, with everyone, right now. Time, please, just stop. 

Five weeks in, we didn’t know who our mom was.

Five weeks out, she invited us to be part of her culture and nationality, renting a home to house 25 of us, showering us with flowers, hymns and vodka.

Five weeks in, we started to stress about our waistline or our lack of muscle.

Five weeks out, we’ve accepted defeat.

Five weeks in, we had yet to see one another in our ugliest of worsts, our darkest of hours.

Five weeks out, we’ve shed our masks, our pride and our fears, revealing a piece of ourselves that no one but one another can ever understand.

Five weeks in, there were 56 of us.

Five weeks out, there are 41. And at least six who left who blacked out their weekend to join us for our farewell. Or, at the very least, use WhatsApp to deliver their sentiments.

Five weeks in, we were scared about how the year would go. Would we like these people? Would we stick it out?

Five weeks out, we’re scared for the year to end.

Five weeks in, we had yet to discover 7/11 pancakes.

Five weeks out, we remember Japan—a time when we stormed, as they warned us we would—more fondly than before. And we miss those damn pancakes. And the wine boxes of Lisbon. The coconuts of Thailand. The graffiti of Colombia. The sunsets of Peru. The nearly everything of everywhere.

Five weeks in, our ‘remember whens’ started to mount.

We had island hopping day and Yacht week, that time we almost melted walking through Old Town, the waterfalls and the day-long side trip to Bosnia. The many pairings and trios and quartets made their separate way to Dubrovnik, only to end up on the same ferry home. Home to Split… for a split second. It’s going so fast! We giggled at beer halls and five-story clubs, adapting to our first week in the Czech Republic. We chatted in the wet grass as the sun set over us, on trains heading to witness history in Poland, or on roadtrips that unintentionally made their way to three different countries in a matter of miles. Travel days were full of King Arthur and Tiger onesies, 80s queens, unicorns and princesses—and we vowed we’d keep it going. How could we not? Of course we would. We have the whole year. How funny will the last travel day be, when we’re all in costume? As we piled into restaurants that couldn’t contain us, our hearts started to feel the same: What is this thing I’m doing? Who are these people I’m with? How is this real life? Thoughts of what would come next were exciting and yet, unnecessary: how could we know what the countries held for us? How caring for one another would become effortless? How so many of our words would shift from ‘me’ to ‘us’? How would we adapt to this way of life? How would it become a routine? A ‘new normal’? How would it feel… like home?

Five weeks out, home is defined by the company of those you love, in motion, forever bound by a single title we signed up for.

These days—er, these final days—it doesn’t matter who you happen to sit next to at lunch or at dinner, by the beach or by a lake, in a van or an Uber, or a bus. We’re the same, same—ah, but so different. If we close our eyes in the middle of our chaotic crowd—wherever we might be—we can pick out the individual laughs that fill the room, by the unique magic we’ve all grown to admire in one another. And at times, despise. Or feel annoyed at. Inspired by. Frustrated with. Captivated by. We have accepted each other for each other, through broken ankles and sprained ones, bee stings and back woes. Through breakups and makeups, Yugens who came and left, through quotable moments that make their way to our public record, through job losses and gains, through happies and crappies, through cheerleading and proofreading. We’ve realized that hey, Remote Year wasn’t about life being on hold, as so many perceived, but about giving our lives space, permission and freedom to come alive.

Five weeks out, we see just how very much, how profoundly, how extremely and how fucking beautifully… we’ve lived. Every single day…

Together.

Five weeks in, we could have never predicted the bond that will unite us, wherever we explore, however much time passes. As it has, as it does, as it will.

Five week out, the hours seemingly pass swifter than they did before. The calendar grows eerily close to the anniversary of the month we met. We resist the countdown, not wanting to know how few days are left. We try to remember we can’t wish it away. We hope the longing doesn’t wedge itself deeper, so we collect 15 to a couch, limbs touching limbs, not caring who we are smushed against, since a cuddle puddle is just one of our many traditions. The gnawing feeling of grief clings to us all, as we take another shot, tell another joke, plan another night out, another tour downtown, give a forced, hopeful smile.

Inhale, exhale, me too, girl, me too.

Five weeks in, we thought we were soaring through the sky, above whatever time zone we had yet to time travel through.

Five weeks out, we realize we were just preparing for takeoff, buckling our seat belts and turning on airplane mode. We book yet another one-way ticket back to a new place or an old place, and we think about the plane we’ll take. And the quiet that, for the first time, in a long time, will surround us. The aisles around us will be void of a Yugen. Strangers will take their seat. Luggage will be stored. And no matter how hard we try to defeat it, we know the sound of Yugen is, perhaps, what we’ll miss the most.

Flight attendants, prepare for takeoff.