room to dance

Yesterday, I had my tenth and final class of tropical dance. After three months of hard graft, thank all the goodness that I am now neither mute nor ignorant. Gracias a esto, I can chat to others inbetween our careful steps to perfect new turns and spins. Every week I am asked if I am happy here. And every week, I tell them that yes, I am.

Usually, their response to this is a kindly sonrisa. But last night, a friend piped up with something else: “Ah! So why not for forever?”

The shock that I am at halfway still slaps me, teasing me with wet eyes, too. I usually pinpoint my ‘place’ feelings with remarkable accuracy: halfway, I cannot imagine going back; a month to go, I am in pain with homesickness; two weeks left, and the sting is in the leaving, not the staying. But here, in my Medellin, I will not be homesick.

It is a great luxury to have lived in the number of cities in which I have been able to. In each one, there have been things that I have loved, and things that have driven me nuts, nuts, nuts. Two months ago I had cravings for London. For the little, trivial things that do often cause the biggest pangs. But now that I can reasonably fumble with endeavours in speech, those hungers have left and gone on their way.

I am left to ponder on how I will possibly be able to leave. I tell people that I must earn a salary in my own currency, to allow me to return to England when, or perhaps even if, I choose to. Secretly, this is likely an excuse for the slight inquietude that surely accompanies the awareness of having found one’s lugar in this grand, vast world.

And for this, I do not know what to do.