Foreign Ground

I walked up to a barista to get a coffee this morning and suddenly realized I didn't speak the language. That's when it hit me. Oh yeah, you're in Spain now. I decided to go look for beauty someplace I've never been before. Also, importantly, somewhere we've never been together. That sounds very sad to say. The way I feel inside is unfamiliar and now the outside is unfamiliar, too.

The travel over the past day, much like the last six weeks, has been a blur. After my friend Natalia's good advice to stay in tune with my yoga practice throughout this tragedy, I decided I'd follow some other advice she'd given me – visit her in the South of Spain. Here I sit, encompassed by language I don't understand, foreign surroundings, and people who look nothing like you – except when they do.

While some people escape into a bottle or a quick fix pill, I escape through travel.

I'm reminded again that there is no escape from this nightmare. No matter how far I run, your absence is always present. No matter where I put my own physical body, I'm confronted with the knowledge that your physical body is not here with me. My yoga teacher, Baron Baptiste, often says "You're either now here, or nowhere." Every time I would snag that quote for use in one of my classes, you would snicker. You thought it was a silly play on words. Well, my love, it's really landing for me now.

Being in an airport was very hard. Well, everything is very hard.

In the past couple years, airports have been a gateway to you. I was either flying to be with you, leaving a beautiful time we shared together, or traveling with you by my side. Being that we were long distance for half of our time together and that we both loved to travel, airports were a norm. But now, flying with the comprehension that you were not going to be on either end of the baggage claim or in the window seat next to me was yet another blow of reality.

As I went through security in Detroit, I reminisced about how I'd always race you to get through the security line first. First one with shoes on and bags in arms, wins! I won every time. OK, maybe you won once or twice when I had a particularly complicated pair of shoes to put back on. But, in general, I was the victor. Your slow pace at gathering your items was due to your meticulous organization when packing.

You always traveled with the same green Timbuktu carry-on bag. You'd had it since college, you told me. I was planning to get you a new one this Christmas.

Every item had its place: Keys in this pocket. Travel wallet in that pocket. Floss and Kind Bars in this zippered compartment. Laptop in main section. Laptop cord, wrapped perfectly, nestled in another section. Writing utensils in pen slots. Spare napkins and cutlery in another spot. Water bottle, slid in the main section, carefully. iPhone charger in its specific meshed area. Playboy magazines, always your favorite to whip out mid-flight – horrifying a neighbor, near laptop.

When you had to take your computer out of the bag to go through security, it took a few extra moments for you to put it back in – the Ted way – making sure everything was in its place. Your belt would come off carefully. Your shoes would come off deliberately. They would also be put back on very carefully. I would stand there watching you with a taunting smile, my boots already slipped on and computer tossed haphazardly back into my unzipped bag. "Bunny ears technique?" I'd joke as you tied your shoes slowly, taking the time to double knot. You'd shoot me a grin back, knowing I'd won.

However, when it came time to find headphones later while in-flight, you'd win. I'd dig around in my giant bag, tossing aside keys, old receipts, unkempt power cords, makeup compacts, iPhone, keys again. "Why can I always find my keys when I don't need them, and not when I do!" I'd ask. "Maybe you should find a spot for everything?" you'd suggest. "That sounds like a terrible idea. What's the fun of knowing where everything is," I'd joke. I'd find my headphones after you already finished listening to a song and then I'd spend the next five minutes untangling them. You'd ask for a pen, your bag being carefully stowed overhead to give you leg-room and mine being at my feet with me stepping all over it. "Sure thing! One sec, let me find one," I'd say. I'd reach into my bag and pull out a chapstick, a mascara, a lipstick, and a tampon before finding a pen for you to use. I may have won in security, but you won at packing.

Some people try to join the Mile High Club while traveling. We agreed that it would be an awkward situation and not worth the risk of being caught (and let's be honest, we were both already members).  We made up our own sexy air travel club. We made it our goal to visit as many family restrooms as possible across the globe. And not to use the toilet. From San Diego to Johannesburg, and Bangor to Cancun, we enjoyed each others company in family bathrooms. We had a joke that we would someday actually make our own family in one of them, and until then we'd practice. As I've traveled today, I've seen three family bathrooms. My reaction is a combination of nostalgia, humor, arousal, and deep loneliness. We had so many more family bathrooms to visit together, Teddy!

Friends and family have said to me over the past week or so, "Have fun in Spain!" or asked, "Are you excited?" No. It's the honest answer. And as a woman who has lived her whole life in a state of excitement for what's to come – not being excited is a really shitty place to be.

Spain will be a place where I did not go with you. It will be a change of scenery from our home in Colorado or our home in Ohio, where memories of you fill every inch of my periphery and hindsight. But, the lack of memories will also make it deeply lonely. It's alarming and painful to make new memories without you.

I constantly imagine you being by my side. As I stood in line at the coffee shop and realized I'd forgotten my conversational Spanish, I thought about how if you were there we would get by just fine. You would have remembered how to order a coffee, and I wouldn't have ended up just repeating what the person in front of me said and getting something I didn't really want.

I think about what I want to say to you in casual moments. Like when I was on my international flight and horrendous versions of Christmas carols were playing. I knew we'd be laughing at the backing tracks and the terrible harmonies. Instead of being able to laugh, I cried. The carols taunted me. No, this Christmas WON'T be a very special Christmas for me.

I want to board a flight and have you in the seat beside me. I want to rest my cheek on your chest as you wrap your strong arm around me. I want to hear your heartbeat and your breath as we fly through the clouds. Instead, I opened my window and stared out at the sky, looking for you. I wondered if I was actually closer to you there then when I was on the ground. And maybe if I looked really hard, I'd see you soaring on a cloud, with giant wings, carrying a harp, and smiling at me.

This has become my reality.