The girl who saves werewolves

7. Nomad Girl

My head hurts.

I don't know is it because of the memory lane or because I'm half sitting and half lying on a hospital bed. And I've been doing that for several days now, only taking short walks between my bed and the bathroom. I have never been a big fan of exercising, but now all I want to do is anything but sit and lie down. I might even go for a run if the doctors gave me permission. But they won't. I'm stuck here. So until I'm not dizzy and my vision is back to normal, I might just as well keep entertaining myself and reminisce.

Maybe something that suits the occasion... Oh, yes. Let me tell you about the first time I hit my head. But it's a long story. Bear with me.

After high school, I did what my parents feared the most. I wandered around the world seeking that something that would make me find meaning. First I spent three months at my grandma's on the outskirts of Bangkok. Once again I heard the small voice in the back of my mind that reminded me I didn't belong there. I looked the part but was a stranger. One morning, after my grandma had placed a glass bottle of pink Fanta and a bowl of oranges on her home shrine, I remembered the brochures my school counselor had given me. This might sound bizarre to you, but after years of not belonging to where I ought to belong, a thought of being somewhere where I could be a stranger - a foreigner and not expected to be anything else, gave me a rush of unfamiliar excitement. At that point, it was purely a selfish desire - being a Mother Teresa was not that important anymore. I knew I could have been one in the US. I could've joined my dad who helped homeless veterans by driving them to job interviews and giving them bags filled with groceries. Or I could've helped my mom. Though working long hours at the restaurant, she always found time to volunteer at the local animal shelter.

Three months was enough. I bought a ticket and found myself in Gavi, Italy. I lived with an Italian family who welcomed people around the world to stay at their house surrounded by vineyards. They gave me a roof over my head and food to fill my stomach. In return, I worked for them from picking grapes to helping their kids with English homework. People didn't stay there long. It was a pit stop for people who were on a global adventure. I was not an exception.

I didn't have much money in my bank account. So I had to choose my destination wisely. But before I had time to choose it wisely, I saw a picture of a green mountain rising from the ocean. I needed to be there. I needed to walk on those narrow paths with wild hydrangeas on both sides. The Azores.

Unfortunately, you cannot live on hydrangeas. I was too close having to call my dad. It would have been humiliating to ask him for money. Luckily I didn't have to! Luckily the chubby hostel owner needed help with cleaning. So no humiliation. Just cleaning toilets with an extremely small salary. Who would pay a proper salary to someone who had no permission to work and was accepting the money under the table?

Though I was surrounded by ridiculous natural beauty, reality had a way of catching up with me. The nomad lifestyle had started to lose its glamour. I realized I didn't like sharing a room with snoring backpackers and not being able to buy books. They didn't fit in my backpack. I love books. They are my escape and comfort.

So when my dad called me and begged me to come home, I didn't reject the idea but told him I'd think about it. Of course, I told him I was enjoying my travels so much and that everything was wonderful. I must have sounded maniac trying to convince him.

"Ok, Luce. I'm happy you're giving it a thought," dad had sighed and after a thoughtful pause he'd went on, "I know tickets are expensive this time of the year. If you decide to come, I'll buy you the ticket so you don't have to work extra shifts."

And there it was. My way out. Or should I say, my ticket out. And my dad had given it to me in a way that allowed me to safe face. I got to give it to him, he was good with tactics.

Two weeks later, I was not surrounded by majestic green mountains in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. Instead, the natural beauty of JFK reminded me of what a strange little place America was. When I waited for my backpack to arrive, I let my eyes wander around the people waiting for their bags as well. Were they coming home? Or where they stranger, visiting a strange country? Or maybe, they too were strangers no matter where home was.

I picked up my backpack and walked out of the terminal. I would stay in the city couple more days before traveling home.

The universe had better plans. Its plan included a bump in my head and something that makes you question your sanity.

And yes, I'm still questioning that. And trust me, you would too.