I arrived home yesterday after taking six flights in four days, starting in La Paz. My biological clock still thinks I’m in New York, my brain gave up somewhere around Miami and my guts haven’t got a clue where they are any more so they are protesting loudly. My backpack only just got here today, twenty-four hours after me, because somehow it missed a connection at JFK. Honestly, I got on the plane fine, I thought the backpack could take care of itself by now.
Life in England is normal, feels unchanged, so much so that it’s making me wonder if I ever even left. The state of my trainers and my bank balance tells me otherwise. I came back a month early because I felt that I’d seen everything I needed to see, wanted to get back home and try returning to normality, and quite frankly because I ran out of money. A three-day tour to Salar de Uyuni in Bolivia was my last gas, and I left just as La Paz was working itself up to Sunday’s presidential elections.
I’ll be blogging on the Inca Trail and Bolivia soon, but for the moment, I’m enjoying brown toast, good tea, warmth on cold nights, the occasional wagging affection of the dog, and the worrying feeling of not really knowing what the hell to do next.