Goodbyes
Whenever I am about to leave a place for a new adventure elsewhere, my final days are always subject to a set of ceremonial gestures to honour the place I am leaving. I am very strict on them, and will go to lengths to make sure every element is fulfilled, in a nearly superstitious belief that proper closure will grant me good luck in my travels onwards.
Here is the general structure behind these goodbye rituals:
I must enjoy my favorite dish, snack, drink
I must do my favorite walk / see my favorite site
I must bid adieu to my favorite people
The catch is that each element must be a hyper-local experience that I will find no where else. For example:
In Singapore: having beef noodle soup at Tongue Tip Lanzhou, Teh Ice at that one vendor down my street, and a walk in Fort Canning park.
In Japan, Sapporo: having miso ramen with a Sapporo beer, a cream dorayaki from the Capo supermarket, a walk in Oodori park
In Japan, Tokyo: having tsukemen at Mensho Taketora, umeshu at Ace’s bar, a walk in Yoyogi park.
In Switzerland: having rösti followed by Läderarch chocolate, walking my dogs on our gorgeous mountain trail.
In The Bahamas: having cracked conch at Nipper’s, a Goombay smash while lounging in a hammock, a walk along the white sand beach.
These little practices are a way for me to honour my time with the country, to show my appreciation for its unique tastes, its aesthetics and the places which have accompanied me in my solitude. For on these large journeys, I am always alone to arrive, alone to leave.
I have nursed my loneliness in romanticising its aesthetics, as poets do, I suppose. Maybe I believe that if I fall in love enough with the city, it will materialise as a person who in turn loves me equally as much. Perhaps this was a Carrie Bradshaw way of living, although I do not have the heel collection to match.
Alongside the food, the shopping and the parks, it is those who I have met along my journey that have made my stay all the more memorable. Being able to bid them goodbye is one of the most precious moments of my final days. For every departure feels like a small death, and in honour of a future uncertain, I insist on tasting the honey in the bittersweet.
So, over coffee we reminisce, on a walk we laugh over favourite memories, at the station we let tears roll down our cheeks in promises to see each other again.
I get used to these heartbreaks, for they are always scheduled around the day of my return plane ticket. I adore them, the slight theatrics, the poetry in them. For it is a moment for me to express appreciation for our friendship or love, in a way that is carefully planned, structured, builds like a drama piece with a satisfying conclusion. Once goodbyes are said, I do not turn around, for that would be bad taste.
The one thing that is intolerable as I close my chapter on a life of memories, is an unpredictable lover. A violent argument on my last night. A melodramatic letter snuck into my suitcase. A desperate plea to prolongate a dying attachment from across the seas. These actions offend my careful staging of a final, proper Goodbye and will only guarantee my resentment.
In the face of the inevitable plane departure, my closing rituals are a way for me to leave a sweet memory behind, wrapping up my appreciation with a bow. If the person loves me, they let me go.
The beauty of a free spirit is also the possibility of return, and every time I have been let go, I have returned to those places where trust has kept our friendship warm.
As you can see, I am very attached to this final act of Goodbye. I appreciate its tidiness, its indulgence in local pleasures that I have built over my time in the place.
While they may not be absolutely final, Goodbyes, to me, are sacred. Because having parted neatly once makes the joy of reaquaintance even more delightful, for they become a welcome surprise, with a new and exciting opportunity to create new memories together. And then, we can move into the ceremony of Hellos.
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