When the road calls #3

Quick update: 

This is possibly the last part I will post for a bit. I'm sorry to disappoint everyone who liked the story so far. The reason for this rash decision is that I'm realizing the novel started the wrong way. There is no real hook, so we just keep going on without a real sense of direction. It's starting to become a memoir, but I want to write a novel. As I think it captivates the reader more. But anyhow, I'm writing for the reader, so if you beautiful people do like to read my memoir, I could keep focusing on it instead. The novel would have the same theme, just rewritten from the ground up, with a more direct conflict for the protagonist to overcome.

I would also like to do a quick shout out to the people from @sft who have been helping me improve my writing a lot over the last few days! 

READ #2 HERE: https://steemit.com/travel/@martibis/when-the-road-calls-2

PART #3:

I don’t know how to feel. The remainder of the road is so familiar, yet makes me feel entirely out of place. What am I doing here? The couple drops me off on the bus stop, opposite of my house. I say some last thanks and goodbyes and make my way to the front door. It all looks too perfect; the well-maintained road, the nice cars driving on it, the house waiting for my arrival. It just doesn’t feel right. For a while I’m just standing there - keys in my hand - at the front door, considering turning around. I decide against it. I’m here now. I should at least give being happy here - within society - a fair shot.

During my time abroad, I had conjured a multitude of ideas for when I returned. Ideas that would make a life on the road possible, while still being successful within modern society. Ideas providing me with a reliable income for the future, without sacrificing the travel-junkie inside. It had sounded so great and easy, but standing here, in front of my dad’s house, it seemed a daunting task. 

The key slides into the lock and I enter my dad’s house. The emptiness washes over me. After a year of traveling solo, coming home is what makes me feel alone and lost. I climb the stairs to my room and drop my backpack on the floor. Not long after, I collapse on the bed. Staring through the window, I see grey clouds forming over the Ghentian rooftops. Why did I come back? Before I full well realize it, I’m sound asleep.

It takes me a moment to realize where I am after waking up. I am expecting the sound of howler monkeys and tropical birds; bright sunlight piercing through a flimsy white curtain; the noise of cars and Spanish chatter from the street below to bring it all together. Eventually, it hits me. I’m back home. Back in Belgium. It feels surreal waking up here, in my own bed. The quiet of my room irks me. I guess – oddly enough - I became used to the hustle and bustle on the street below my Costa Rican apartment. I would’ve never guessed it to be one of the first things I’d miss.

I drag myself out of bed and make my way to the narrow hallway. Against the far wall, underneath the stair to the attic, my desk resides. A black mini fridge underneath and an unorganized mess of papers on top - waiting for me to never be read. Next to this mess, my Senseo machine is smiling right at me. The remnants of university-life. 

I let the Senseo boil water, while I make my way to the shower. With the hot water pouring over me, I lose the sluggish I-just-woke-up-feeling. And even though it’s 4 PM, I realize that I’ve fallen in some long-lost morning-routine from before I was traveling. Get out of bed, let water boil for coffee, take a shower, sing along to music entirely out of tune, brush my teeth, get dressed, pour coffee, move back to my room, drink the coffee and smoke the first cigarette of the day - still singing along to whatever tune is playing. Funny how certain routines click back into place, even after so long. After completing this re-found routine, I go downstairs to the kitchen and get myself breakfast at 4:30 PM.

My dad would return home from his job anytime now and the kitchen would be the first place he’d go to. We had barely kept in touch over the course of a year, and even before we had never talked much. Even so, or maybe because of it, I feel nervous about seeing him again.