I fell again on Wednesday. So did Carlos. Funny story. He was teaching me how to corner with speed on the bike and… BOOM. He was down. I was right on his wheel and so without much room to waver, I was down too. We are fine. A few bruises and scraped elbows but nothing serious. I have fallen so many times on my road bike, mountain bike and trail running here that I even have strava segments named after me (and my falls). Who needs tattoos when you have scars? Though I don’t feel particularly glamorous with all these battle wounds, I do look at each nick with a good memory of this beautiful part of the world.
Our move back beckons in ten short days. Part of me feels like I was just writing about “wrapping things up in San Francisco” and now here I am going through a similar set of emotions as a transition looms yet again. I’ve gone through this many times before yet the feelings are just as confusing as they were when I was seventeen, packing up for college. It’s a mix of excitement (let’s not pretend we aren’t going to Maui for a week of sun and snorkeling), stress, nervousness, sadness and hope. I get butterflies in my stomach at random times and other times it feels like a lump in my throat. There are so many things and people I will miss in Tasmania. They say you can always come back. And though we might, even if we came back in a month, things would be different. It’s the end of a chapter. The end of an epic journey. Carlos and I have embraced this experience and allowed it to shape us. Tasmania has left its mark on both of us.