Waking up in the Midwest

After a restless sleep, and not enough of it, I awoke to having to buy toilet paper, restock the fridge and pantry shelf. The water tasted different, the slant of light. The trees were further along into their descent into winter. The whole world.

While gone, there was Israel and Gaza and new wars. New perils.

The garden had gone to seed. The peeling paint more distressed. I wish I were somewhere else. Is this the letdown after a trip? The low following the high? A reckoning?

Not that the trip was paradise—more an interruption to real life. A fourth dimension, a slipstream that I folded into for a little over 3 weeks. That vaguely familiar routine of pedaling, a kind of Zen, where I feel at home within my body, my mind elsewhere, living in the moment.

The moments of awestruck pleasure over the most sublime scenes. The hush, the color of the sky, a certain sense of well-being, of not being lost, of getting somewhere, that adventure awaits.

The first few weeks were Indian Summer. A German even asked me—Indian Summer, is okay to say? An interlude of grace, relief from heat before the scouring snows of winter. I cycled in comfort in shorts and shirtsleeves. Hazy mornings with afternoon warmth before vibrant sunsets flaming into autumn colors. Only my last couple days did the weather turn seasonal. The last day, my toes were cold; I waited for the sun to break through, and before the end of the day, the sky had cleared and I was warm riding without hat and gloves.

At intervals tea in my thermos or a café stop for coffee were welcome.

At home now, waking in darkness, in cold, leaves on the ground, the trees past brilliance, I’m missing my Rhine River Ride. Bakery stops, lattes in elegant cups, picnics on a bench, the whisper of wind in treetops—the carpet of green covering Swiss hillsides. Even the Alps seemed resistant to coming change. And, I wonder:

            How long until I can go back?