You know, I get terribly maudlin when I drink champagne. Not that I’m going to stop drinking the stuff, obviously. That would be ridiculous. No, I just recognize that if I drink champagne and I match that to exactly the wrong time of the month, I’m in for a rough ride.
Even though I live in one of the most amazing places in the world, and am blessed with all that a woman can ask for by way of good friends and exciting and interesting things to do here, I do miss those I left behind in my travels. Good friends, people who love and understand me, and an easy acceptance that comes from years of spending all kinds of time together. It makes me sad.
Skype and WhatsApp are a Godsend, of course, but doesn’t make up for the distance. What I wouldn’t give, often, for a teleporter. I mean, if they conceived of it in the sixties for Star Trek, why the hell isn’t it a reality yet? Someone needs to sort this out.
Because it is a sad fact of today’s reality that we have all become economic migrants, moving to there where the jobs and prospects are good, and the ties that bound us to our homelands in our parent’s and their parent’s generation, are more tenuous every day. I envy people with long roots. They have a deep understanding of their own culture, are embedded within it, and have an innate understanding of the nuance of language, people, food, culture and history. This is completely unobtainable to those who are passing through for a few years. They dip their accents to bend towards the circumstance and the receiver, and communicate with so much more than words.
Anyway, back to friends left behind. Those with the long roots, those of the easy understanding and the total assurance that they are in the right place at the right time. So given just the right amount of champagne, there’s me sending soppy messages at unreasonable times of the day, to a list of the bestest bestest girlfriends a woman could want. Like, ever, “sista from anotha motha”. I love you.
Eh, don’t let me near Facebook, there’s levels to the embarrassment I can cause myself. Then I’m off mourning the dead all over again and messaging family members reminiscing about Christmases that were probably disasters but now seem like they have halos around them. Because tomorrow morning once the Alka-Seltzer has kicked in, there’s the reckoning. The alarmed responses in Messenger and the missed WhatsApp calls as the summoned come to in their various time zones.
Ouch, but they know me, of course, so it’s not all that bad. Then I get to spend the next few hours on WhatsApp calls checking in and setting out the patterns of our various lives. So we are all in the know about the who and the what for the next few months.
So, having spent the morning doing just that, I’m feeling satisfied and loved. All is well in the world. I can pick up my flip flops and get on with my day. I’m hoping the headache will shift, too. Hair of the dog?