Wait, which way am I going?
Reflecting on a difficult year while on a cross-country train
I wrote the original draft of this post on December 30th and 31st as I rode a train across the United States. I never managed to publish it because my health took an unexpected turn over the course of the journey.
I’ll skip some of my usual theatrics and cut to the chase: I’ve injured my back. I suspect it’s been injured for quite a while actually, but the fifty-hour train trip was the straw that broke this camel’s back. I arrived in New Mexico a husk of a human being, and only thanks to the care of my friend Tara, immediately sought medical attention.
For the last month now, I’ve been living at my parents’ house in Texas recuperating. The problem with my body is multifaceted and still not totally clear. In short though, I have a vertebral fracture in my lumbar spine which is causing (or being caused by) a host of other issues in my back, hip, and leg. I will spend February doing more diagnostics with my orthopedist while starting a PT regime. That should, hopefully, put me on a good track to fix myself.
I can’t hide from the fact that this last month has been miserable. The physical pain has been echoed by an emotional pain as my life has ground to a complete halt. My days have mostly consisted of mindless binges of British detective shows, watched sideways as I lay on my parents’ sunken couch. I haven’t had the energy nor physical ability to do much of anything, let alone publish to this blog.
Finally, though, I’m starting to feel better. My brain told me today that it wanted to do something creative, which I’m pretty ecstatic about! So while I’ll write about this whole mess another time, I wanted to send something out into the world today.
Here’s my reflection on 2023, as told by a man locomoting across the U.S. while in pain.
Today marks the end of the year, and I’m on yet another long journey. This time I’m on a train from Washington DC to Albuquerque, New Mexico. The train’s stainless-steel shell is textured by rivets and painted with red, white, and blue stripes. When I conjure an image in my head of a generic American train, this is that train.
My trip will take fifty hours in total. Two days, bought and paid for, promising spectacular views of American landscapes once we escape this darkness.
The train horn blares through the dark, signaling our phantom progress as we pass through America’s rail towns. Judging by the horn’s call, I suspect we’re moving forward, but there’s no way for me to be sure. For now, we coast through nothing.
We left Union Station in DC at 4:00pm yesterday afternoon. At 8:30am we’ll arrive at another Union Station, this one in Chicago. I have all night to stare into the abyss and think about the end of 2023.
Rolling through Ohio, I come to only one conclusion: My life is a bit of a mess — a painful, adventurous mess that is looping back around on itself.
Parts of 2023 were exceptional. My travels especially. The scenes of various trips float around in my head as warm memories: Dancing at an apres-ski party in the Italian Alps; bathing in thermal pools tucked into the Greek mountains; losing myself at an outdoor hip-hop concert in Berlin; rough hiking through the Dolomites with a couple of madmen; holding the chuppa over my sister as she marries her lovely husband.
One of my favorite moments came when I visited Albania in March with my friends Dane and Ben. Toward the end of our road trip, we arrived in a tiny village tucked in the country’s gorgeous mountains. Our host was an older woman who spoke only Albanian and Italian. When we arrived she quickly showed us our room for the night and then mimed for us to follow her back outside, where she’d built a two-table bar into the front of the house. The room was a tiny space where locals would hang out and drink to pass the time. She motioned for us to sit, poured four glasses of raki from a plastic water bottle, and plopped down into an empty chair beside us.
Our host was eager to chat, but even Ben’s brave attempts at Italian didn’t get us far in conversation, so we pulled out a phone and asked her to speak through a translator app. For over an hour she spoke to us through thirty-second audio clips made possible through the app. She described her beloved children, her life growing up in Communist Albania, and the difficulties young Albanians face in today’s world. She spoke with vigor and humor, and even some tearful reminiscence.
The scene was straight out of a sappy Google Translate commercial. In my memory, though, it was an emotional dialogue — a compelling woman overjoyed to share her life with a trio of young travelers, who themselves are eager to learn from her experience and openness.
By the end of the evening, she offered to adopt us. Then she promised to make us traditional Albanian frybread in the morning. And sure enough, as we loaded up early the next day, she sent us off with two giant plates of warm petulla, cheese, and tomatoes to keep us well.
Though my relationship with travel has become increasingly fraught over time, little nuggets of exchange like this one continue to give my life air. And as always, it is my generous friends who open the door for these experiences. I am forever grateful to them for this, especially for the many times they’ve hosted, fed, or otherwise sustained me through difficult times.
Pain played a significant role in my life this year. I cannot exactly pinpoint when the pain started, but I remember clearly when, one morning in October of 2022, I sat up in bed and found myself in mind-erasing lower back pain. From that day forward, my body has been uncooperative.
The pain moves up and down, flip-flopping from day to day. Some days, my neck throbs as if someone were plucking a bowstring that runs the length of my spine. On other days, my lower back completely freezes up. Worst of all is my right leg. Several times throughout the year, my leg has seized up from foot to hip as if someone had filled it with burning concrete. The leg pain is more manageable than the other forms (usually), but the way it inhibits my ability to walk drives me wild with anxiety.
Shortly after the episode in 2022, I had to quit rock climbing, the hobby that had given my social life rhythm in recent years. Then I started to struggle while at work. Sitting in front of a screen caused intolerable tension in my shoulders and neck. Then, over half a year, I essentially lost the ability to sit at a desk.
The pain has foundations in my lumbar spine. Something — or many things — about my lifestyle has caused my back to revolt, and while I’ve found various coping mechanisms thanks to medical professionals, nothing has healed me. Yesterday, I nearly abandoned this ridiculous fifty-hour train ride because my shoulder erupted in painful spasm.
Even as I write this, I physically can’t look left. Thankfully, there’s nothing to see out the window but the passing darkness.
My body doesn’t trust me anymore. It keeps a visceral fear from the episode last October, which saw me writhing around on a sweat-soaked bed, nearly vomiting from pain. I’d like to not replicate that feeling next year, if possible. Consider that my resolution for 2024.
I waded into and out of a relationship in 2023. She was someone already dear to me. A friend and confidant. We grew close in my cramped kitchen back in Copenhagen. Sitting across from one another at the tiny fold-down kitchen table, she would listen as I told her about my woes. Sometimes she would explain curious things about the Bog People or the Irish Travellers. Often we just sat in quiet.
Our fling was never meant to be anything serious. She was clear on that point. I was too — until I wasn’t.
I took the bus from Albania to see her in Greece, where she now works doing important, good things. We rented a car and drove to the southern tip of the Peloponnese, stopping only to jump in the sea, or to buy homemade olive oil, or to read the plaques on memorials.
Our last conversation in Athens was one of those conversations that never resolves. Both parties dig deeper holes while trying to frame their feelings in the perfect words. We didn’t reach a conclusion before saying goodbye. She visited Copenhagen after that, but it was already over.
She was vague when ending it. I didn’t understand what she meant — until I did.
When things ended, I was at a loss. Over time, I'd learned to depend on her. My sense of balance had come to rely on her calming presence, and I was disoriented without her. How was I supposed to grow without her cultivating influence? Who would listen with her style of unconditional empathy?
Of course life just keeps moving. New people and influences have come into my life with their own indelible impact — that's always been the case, and will always continue to be the case. But no two people are the same. The pieces never fit together in quite the same way.
We still talk, even though it stings. She knows that. But she also cares. Even now, she wants to hear what I have to say. What can I do other than appreciate and emulate her empathy as I move forward?
In June, I decided to leave Denmark. The choice represented a major shift in my life. I’d spent the previous five years acclimatizing to the country and forging a life in Copenhagen. I had worked hard to craft a professional role for myself within the Danish NGO sector. I was only a year and a half from receiving permanent residency. Denmark had become my home.
The impulse to leave came from several things. The pain of working at a desk was certainly one. My criticisms of Denmark also played a role. And while I worked for a great organization, my job was often tedious and frustrating. Ultimately, I was spurred to leave by a continued sense of restlessness. After several years frozen out by COVID-19 and then trapped in the “Golden Handcuffs” of Copenhagen, I was ready to start a new adventure. There were too many things I wanted to try which I’d never manage if I stayed in Copenhagen.
Somehow, that mentality brought me to Israel in the early fall. I won’t dwell too long on my experience there. I’ve already spent too much time reflecting on it, which you’ll hopefully be able to read at some point (though I wrote this post back in September). In the weeks before October 7th, though, I found myself living in a community of stargazers practicing a unique agrarian lifestyle far out in the Negev Desert. My time with them was challenging, educative, and altogether bizarre. After the attack, I found myself on the periphery of the region’s worst conflict in years, surrounded by suffering and fear. The whiplash is something I have yet to fully process.
My early exit from Israel led me to spend more time in the United States than I intended. American culture still grates on me as much as ever. The consumerism ruffles my feathers. The car-centrism is annoying and isolating. And the blatant inequality is shocking. Yet I have to say, I’ve enjoyed my time in Washington DC living with my sister and her husband. They’ve asked little from me while providing a steady undercurrent of stability and levity.
These last two months I’ve been living parallel to normal society. Without a day job or rent to pay, I moseyed around DC, attending yoga classes at noon with stay-at-home moms or catching matinees in empty movie theaters. In the evenings, I walked the dog before watching a show or playing board games. All the while, I schemed up plans for the next year.
My life there was not a sustainable lifestyle (and only possible thanks to my sister’s generosity), but it gave me the freedom to enjoy the present moment while contemplating the future.
That future has materialized unexpectedly. I’m now headed to New Mexico to live at a Zen Buddhist center in the mountains. Don’t ask me to explain too much. Frankly, I can’t answer why I’m doing this. It seemed like a good opportunity to learn in a rich environment. And because of that, I’ve found myself on this never-ending train to the southwest.
As we creep through the darkness toward Chicago, I’m compelled to wonder: Do the events of this year represent progress? Have I progressed as a human in 2023?
I honestly don’t know. Half of me is content with my current situation. I’m glad I’ve taken some risks. I’ve learned a great deal about myself in the face of unfamiliar adversity, and I’ve experienced some incredible things alongside people I love. I’ll fondly look back on much of 2023.
However, the choices I’ve made this year have also come with a steep toll. I don’t see my friends as often as I used to. Actually, I don’t have any semblance of a normal social life. I don’t have an apartment, a steady income, or access to healthcare. Those things, I’m hoping, I can manage without for a little while as I continue to move.
The other costs I’ve felt this year — the suffering, the pain, and the rejection — are harder to swallow. Ideally, these feelings are helping me to build character, forcing me to grow and adapt. I worry, though, they are just whittling me down. I worry that I’m becoming less than I was, moving backward instead of forward.
Still, I’m tentatively hopeful for 2024. I’ve made some interesting plans and planted a few promising seeds. Time will tell me where I’m going, but for now, I’ll continue gliding through the night.
Thank you all for the support this year. Have a good 2024, wherever your tracks are taking you.
-JCP