Although there are exceptions, the times that I procrastinate the worst aren't the times I hate the task I need to do. However little I might like the topic of a paper I need to write, it's easier to sit down with a coffee and stumble through a first draft then to to ignore the voice that whispers in my head all day and shouts in the middle of the night that the deadline is approaching. And besides, the less I want to do a task, the happier I am when it's finally done. I procrastinate a little on papers. I procrastinate a lot when I need to pack up my room at the end of the year, or, as I mentioned in my first post, when I need to pack for trip. Even a trip that I want to go on.
I don't like leaving.
I like traveling. I like exploring new places, and I like being in new places. I go stir crazy if I'm in the same place for too long (“too long” varying anywhere from six hours to six months.) For the past couple of years I've never come back to the United States without knowing where I was going to go next. (Spoiler alert: Sweden.) But for all that, I've never been able to reconcile myself to the idea of leaving. It hurts every time.
Usually, the pain goes away rather quickly. It simply isn't strong enough to compete with the relief of being able to see my friends and family again, or my excitement at my next new adventure. I hate leaving, but it's a temporary state.
On the morning of August 23, I got on a plane and flew back to Chicago. For a month after that I was able to catch up on the writing I hadn't had time to do there, and keep revisiting Scotland in those memories. And then I wrote about my last day in Scotland, and I knew the next thing I would need to was leaving. And I didn't want to leave Scotland.
So I didn't. I didn't forget about the blog. Occasionally the voice in my head would go “aren't you going to update your blog?” And I'd come up with some excuse like “I'm tired” or “I'm busy” or simply “I don't want to.” But in moments when I was safely out of the range of a computer and otherwise unoccupied, my mind would form thoughts and sentences. Final things to say about Edinburgh. It would try and make a full blog post out of climbing the Sir Walter Scott Monument (very gothic, beautiful view of the city, but there are a lot of steps and not enough room for people to move around once you pass the first level) or walking through the labyrinth near the university (labyrinth, not maze. Lots of turns. Supposed to meditative. If it was, it became a lot less so once a group of people came in, took random starting points, and started racing to the middle.) or simply wandering around during the week we stayed there and then the extra day we had.
If I wanted, I could read through the blog and find more anecdotes or pictures I really should have included. I could even include the suddenly remembered lyrics from Gingers! The Musical, a show I saw five years ago. I could go through old booklets and see which titles stir my memory, and if I can reconstruct outlines or maybe some specific details.
I left Scotland almost 50 days ago. And there's nothing else I can think of to add. My memories dissolve and blur together from the moment I boarded the plane. I can't remember what I did during the flight, or what the taxi driver who picked us up at O'Hare looked like. I miss Edinburgh, and the longer my blog-self could linger around the airport Hilton, or, better yet, High Street, the better. But the Fringe is over. The performers are gone, and she should be too.
I hate leaving, so let's get this one over with quickly. My family and I got up early and enjoyed our airport breakfast. Then we walked to the airport together. We were taking different airlines, so we split up to check in for our flights, but merged together before security. My father helped my sister pick out her final gifts for coworkers, and my mother helped me spend my remaining sterlings, just in case Scotland had voted for independence. And then my sister boarded her plane, and we boarded ours, and we were on our way back to the US, plus one Scottish Bush Baby.
