Leaving Palmyra and Tadmur is that moment when one stops heading out, and starts heading back. By now I am familiar with this sensation.
Hanoi, Larabanga, and now Palmyra.
The places may change, but the feeling remains.
The tide has crested and the change of direction is relentless. I need to go there, so I can get back to there, so I can cross the border there so I can go to that place where I can find a bus to there and then figure out a plane ride back to Istanbul, where I will figure out a place to stay and then figure out a way to the airport.
Suddenly I feel like a kitten that thought venturing out was a good idea, while failing to consider the complexities of venturing back, and I briefly consider running up a tree and whining plaintively.
I hate this moment. It feels like my bungee cord has fallen as far as it will go and the rest of this trip is just the road home.
I think to myself that if you're going to think of Palmyra, Syria as the peak of a trip, then that is a pretty good trip.
And then I think that perhaps my fit of melancholy is more attributable the fact that I have witnessed one of the greatest sites on the planet. I recall the tears I shed as I gazed upon Palmyra from the hill that I climbed, I consider the reality that I will never gaze upon this most profound place again, and I am at once mourning and celebrating.
What is clear is that the blessings of my fortunate life continue to rain upon me.
http://www.goyestoeverything.com
