Home Again, Home Again (Jiggety-Jig)

 If you are of a certain age, you will recall the lines from the poem ‘To market, To market’ and the ‘jiggety-jig’ joy of returning home.

As I’ve written many times before (certainly each time after I go away), travel is a marvellous experience, but that feeling of coming home might rival it. And one can never fully appreciate that ‘coming home’ feeling unless you’ve left it for a while, and preferably been in another culture, surrounded by a foreign language, a different rhythm and way of life. And then – a homecoming, that familiarity that wraps itself around you like a hug, that voice in your head that whispers: This is home, I belong here.

I often get sentimental when the plane circles over Toronto, preparing to land. This time it was a bit different, because I flew via Montreal, to Spain and back. And when my Madrid-Montreal plane approached the airport, I recognized no landmarks below me, and that spark of familiar love didn’t fully ignite. The plane from Montreal to Toronto, just about an hour, didn’t have the same effect, because now I’d already landed once on Canadian soil, and that moment had passed. Somehow, I felt cheated.

In Altea - a small town near Valencia

But when I walked in my front door, the magic of returning home was there. And again the next morning, sitting in my favourite chair by the window with journal and coffee, watching the sunrise.

If I wax poetic about coming home, it’s not because I didn’t enjoy my travel experience. I certainly did. There is so much I love about travel, even knowing there will be moments that will be challenging, moments when I will question why I’m away, nights when I’d prefer to be in my own bed.

This trip was no exception. As I wrote in my previous blog post, there were many nights when falling asleep was a challenge. One of the other challenges was when I arrived in Cuenca by train from Valencia. Google maps led me to a street that was closed due to construction, and I circled and circled trying to find another way. Eventually, I arrived at the door of my accommodation, just on the other side of the Huecar river which encircles and separates the old historic city from the lower, newer part. The big sturdy door was locked, and I had no passcode to get in. I had to message the property through the booking app, asking how to enter and then which of the four rooms was mine, and what was the code to that. At home, I would merely have called, but there, I had access to data, not phone calls, and in any case, how could I make myself understood in Spanish over the phone? Written messages I could translate. But it all worked out, as these things usually do, and I found myself in a lovely, clean, comfortable room for four nights, an old historic city at my doorstep, beautiful buildings and museums to explore, hanging houses on the edge of cliffs to gawk at.

The hanging houses of Cuenca

One of the bonuses of travelling solo is that you can set your own pace, see what you want, eat where and when you want. There is no one to compromise with or consult, an advantage when compromise can be a difficult negotiation if you are used to making every decision on your own.

But there is also another side to travelling solo in a foreign country – no one to have a real conversation with in your own language. For an introvert, that might also seem like a bonus, but there are times when you want a real conversation. Luckily, the friend whose Valencia apartment I was staying in, put me in contact with a friend of hers there, and we had a long lunch and walk and talk together. And then – unexpectedly and delightedly, I discovered through her blog that my first writing teacher, Beth, whose class I took in 2005, was going to be in Madrid the same three days as me. We met and walked and talked, sat and nibbled and drank, walked and talked some more. It made me realize how much I appreciate connection and conversation with like-minded people, and how sweet it is to stumble across it whilst travelling solo.

Beth and me in Madrid

This time, when arriving in Madrid by train from Cuenca, I was surprised by how immediately comfortable I felt in the city. It was my fourth time in Madrid (never for more than a night or two or three, on the way to or from some other part of Spain), but I felt a familiarity, staying in a neighborhood I’d stayed in twice before, knowing the direction to walk to get to El Retiro park, San Miguel mercado, the palacio, Sol, Plaza Mayor, San Gines Chocolateria.

I even found the street and building where I’d stayed my first time in Madrid. After the initial complication of getting to my hotel (the metro line was under repair, I had to get off the train, take a shuttle bus to another station, get back on the metro, explaining I was told my ticket would still be valid, then let through a free turn-style by a kindly official), I couldn’t help smiling as I walked the bustling streets of Madrid, unperturbed by the crowds and buzz that had so overwhelmed me the first time I arrived in the city from sleepy Cadiz in 2019. As my daughter said to me: perhaps Madrid is the city you know best other than your hometown. And perhaps it is.

A stunning little church in Madrid

Another thing I learned this trip which I will take into consideration on my next trip (because of course there’s going to be another one): In Madrid, staying in a hotel where there was someone at the desk 24 hrs., lent some peace of mind that I believe is now important to me as an older female travelling solo.

I realize that travelling solo now is not the same as it was when I first began eighteen years ago. I must make adjustments to accommodate a feeling of vulnerability that creeps up on you when you acknowledge you are aging. And yet, travel hasn’t lost its appeal, not for me, not any time soon. I believe it enhances your life, gives you fresh experiences to ponder and add to your memories, new perspectives, and certainly a smorgasbord of tastes and sounds and cultural delights.

 

The Rose Garden, El Retiro park, Madrid