A few weeks ago I received the inevitable but upsetting call – my grandma had passed away.
I was home alone on a Friday morning and I had no idea what to do with the news. I cried, I called a friend, I cried some more and then I just felt lost.
Because I couldn’t do anything. I was too far away to help my parents out, provide support or attend the funeral. The last time I saw her was 18 months ago. She was in relatively good spirits until the end, though had definitely been on a bit of a downward spiral in the last months. I felt better knowing that she hadn’t been too uncomfortable, had died peacefully in her sleep, and was probably more than ready to let go.
I go on a lot about homesickness… and I apologise, but I will probably continue to do so from time to time, because… well frankly because I have a damn good life which means that ‘minor’ issues such as these play a bigger part than they otherwise would.
And apart from you lovely folk reading my blog there is one other person who has to put up with a much bigger chunk of my whining.
Birthdays while travelling seem to take place at two extremes. You either find yourself among a bunch of awesome people, and the fact it is your birthday propels everyone into party mode resulting an epic night. Or it’s lonely, in a city among people you haven’t connected particularly well with, which then becomes a half-hearted kind of tragic day.