Everything Is Changing and I Can't Keep Up!

I would love to say I journal every day, but this couldn't be further from the truth. In actual fact, I journaled for the first time in four years early this summer (and haven't picked up the designated 2016 Claire's notebook since). I like to say it's because my life has become very busy, but A) I definitely do still have ten minutes to write something, and B) I realise I force my life to be busy so I don't have to feel the nostalgia of so many chapters closing in such quick succession.

The prompt that popped up while I was scrolling was: ‘Write about a room you will never enter again.’ For some reason, this encapsulated everything I had been avoiding thinking about, and I found myself sat with the (previously mentioned) 2016 Claire's notebook, writing pages of teary thoughts. I have lived in five houses/apartments since moving out. At eighteen, I walked completely petrified into an absolutely tiny Austrian town for a couple of weeks, which subsequently turned into a couple of months, and now a couple of years. I walked out having had the most wonderful (and chaotic) experience, and today it's been four years. I have blinked, and the babies have grown into amazing, walking, talking children. I have learnt so much from this lovely family. I arrived terrified and insecure, and through many comfort-pushing experiences (notably, one weekend off, arriving alone to Kraków at 2am with no battery and a stolen credit card), I felt I walked out as a brand new person: able to speak up for myself and move with real confidence for the first time ever.

My au pair bedroom was a big chunk of my brief journaling stint this summer, before my mind frantically moved on to the (56, in total) hostels I stayed in later that year. I do NOT want to or say I found myself in South East Asia… so I won't.

It was, however, an amazing four months rushing from city to beach to city, repacking everything every two days. I quite impressively managed to lose (or have pickpocketed) almost every single item I brought with me, and came back with an entirely different backpack. Although I am clearly very attached to the physical and metaphorical rooms I won't re-enter, it's perhaps clear to you, and to me, that I am not attached to anything I pack with me. Don't get me wrong, there are rooms from this period you would literally have to drag me kicking back to. A ten-bed dorm in Malaysia comes to mind: nine of which were men, leaving me as the only girl (absolute horror). It had plastic coverings over all the beds, which I later discovered was for their recurring bed bug problem. I woke up covered in black ants and checked out two days earlier than planned. A six-bed dorm in the Philippines also comes to mind; while unpacking my bag on the floor next to my bottom bunk, I was swiftly projectile-vomited on by a returning, tipsy tuber.

The next rooms to fall victim to my journal ramble were the many rooms I've had in York. It's the city that has watched me fall in love with my boyfriend, make some of my best friends, have many, many nights out, and perhaps half as many wholesome days out. I miss the warmth of my second-year kitchen, the hours spent in Eva's first-year room, the friends' rooms I could pop to down the road, and so many more.

The room I am still in active withdrawal from is my kitchen this year, while on a teaching placement in Vienna. It was the absolute tiniest space, and I broke an estimated eight plates and bowls just trying to reach my cupboard. The floor was a bright orange and slowly turning brown, while the kitchen surfaces were neon blue. On the first day, the sockets exploded, the hob didn't work, and I realised we had no oven or kettle. It was during that first evening that I thought: okay, it can probably only go uphill from here.

And it certainly did. I would usually arrive home from work around two, to my flatmates cooking breakfast (or sometimes lunch), and we'd sit for hours chatting, eating, giggling, drinking endless coffees, cutting each other's hair, going out to explore, and coming back to get ready for jazz or techno nights out. I'm sure if I'd had horrible roommates, I would have hated the bright orange floor,

the neon blue counters, and all the non-functional aspects of the kitchen: but as it turned out, I grew to love all of it.

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As I write this, I am taking off from Madrid Airport, heading back to London. I hate crying in public, but I'm afraid my plane neighbours are the unwitting witnesses to this public crier. I'm stuck in the middle seat, my knees pressed into the seat in front of me. I've just said goodbye to my best friends and flatmates from this year, and for some reason this goodbye feels sadder than the end of Vienna.

It definitely doesn't help my nostalgia that I've had zero hours of sleep on this trip. It does help that my boyfriend is waiting to pick me up from Stansted airport which, as a side note, should not really count as London. Let's be honest, it's basically in Cambridge.

These feelings aren't unique to me. I think it's just part of being in your twenties, the constant packing up, saying goodbye, and starting again somewhere new. Every room I've left has taught me something I couldn't have learnt anywhere else, and every room I haven't entered yet is still out there, waiting! 

Now for another four years of repressing every negative emotion until I reach for the Claire’s notebook once more.