Hello, Goodbye

It’s 2:27 am. My alarm went off 12 minutes ago signifying the last time I will wake up with F squad on the World Race. I turned it off, clicked open my phone screen, and turned off the backup alarm I set for 2:20 so that it wouldn’t disturb my teammates. I’m usually up earlier than they are. I climbed down from the top bunk for what I can only hope will be the last time for the rest of my life. I’m not a fan of top bunks. On this one, the ladder isn’t attached to the bed so it kind of just bangs around and feels like you’re going to fall backwards off the side when you are descending it. I grabbed my pile of pre determined clothes in the dark and changed in the bathroom. I didn’t take my makeup off after our last team dinner and I could tell which side of my face I slept on. I left the bathroom because the other girls were waking up and community means sharing. I shoved the clothes I slept in into my bag and pulled the zipper shut for the last time this year. I silently stared at my teammates while they slept. They don’t mind. I’ve told them before. I unplugged my phone charger and put it in my carryon before I grabbed my bags to head down to the lobby of our hostel. And now, here I sit. One by one, each member of what has become my family is coming into the small lobby with their bags, and, with the sight of their faces, in comes the flood of countless memories. Impromptu Russian accents. Wearing aluminum foil hats and having a star party. Dance parties at 2:44 am (right now) in semi public places. Crying together over bad news from home. Hard conversations to speak the truth in love. People who were safe when things were really hard. As our last travel day as a squad commences, I can’t help but to think about the fact that this kind of life together is dissolving today. We won’t travel around the globe like this again living in this kind of community. In fact, many of us fear we won’t ever have this kind of community again. How can you describe what it’s like to live with 29 other humans for a year to someone at home who has barely had a roommate? This kind of life doesn’t make sense in our culture. So yes, today is a day of celebration. I get to hug those I haven’t seen in 321 days. I’m going to stick my face under a faucet and drink directly out of the tap. There may or may not be salad waiting for me. I’ve missed anything green and leafy that won’t give me typhoid. And alongside all these things there is also something else. The Race is over and with the end of this season, a new one of grief is being ushered in. I’m not going to wake up to anyone tomorrow morning. There is going to be a weird moment at some point where I look around for my friends-turned-family and they won’t be there. We’ll probably call each other before 24 hours is up because we are all we now know. People at home won’t be asking how our heart is and they most likely won’t understand why we cry the first time we go to Walmart. These people, the ones I’m watching dance to songs we listened to in junior high, are the ones who will get it. Our bus to the airport is supposed to be here in 2 minutes. If we’re being real, it’s going to be late because this is the World Race and that’s what our norm has become. I’m okay with that. I’m wishing these moments could stretch out just a little bit longer. I suspect my life in the transition home will look a lot like reminiscing on these moments and getting caught by someone I love at home as I stare blankly off into space with a slight smile or maybe tears. Goodbyes are hard, but as I remember my last hard goodbye—leaving home in January—I am reminded of the words one of my sweet teammates spoke over us all.