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Are We There Yet?

© Ceg Richardson

You'd think this would get easier. I've made the trip several times, survived the boredom, the exhaustion, the intimidating customs agents. I've weathered the backaches, the leg cramps, the headaches that always accompany me on the ten hour journey. I've managed baggage that's too heavy into overheads that are too high. I guess you could say I'm an old pro at this traveling game. So why am I so overcome with dread at the mere thought of dialing up those ticket reservations?

At first, I thought it was fear. And in the beginning, it probably was. Traveling alone can be a daunting experience as thoughts of robbery, harassment and even "what if the train breaks down and leaves me stranded here alone" rush through the mind. Having done this so many times sans the occurrence of any such tragedies, however, has calmed my otherwise panic prone sensibilities. As a matter of fact, the first half of my round trip is fairly painless. Armed with enough reading and listening materials to busy the time between naps, I make the journey happily, even excitedly, with only scattered bouts of minor nervousness. Of course, there is actually something to be happy and excited about as I approach my destination. My courage and stamina will be rewarded when the ride has finally reached it's end, when I will step off the train and into the arms of my love.

Unfortunately, the reward is short lived, and in retribution there is the return trip. This is the part that smothers me in anxiety. Fresh off the heels of a sad goodbye, comes the dreaded second half of the round trip. Its here that the alone part is so greatly emphasized. Every mile the train chugs along is another mile further fom my guy and closer to my life without him. Each moment, every hour - another reminder of the distance between us. Suddenly the headaches and backaches are further exaggerated by the accomapnying heartache, as the knowledge looms that, this time, there will be no one waiting for me to disembark. No one to greet me, to hold me, to take my heavy baggage from my weary arms. Everytime I make that trip it just gets longer. And lonelier. And each time I'm greeted by nothing but the rushing of strangers in a cold depot, my heart grows sadder.

Yeah, you'd think it would get easier, but you'd think wrong. It only becomes a hell of a lot harder.

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