Brenna Holeman

The last time I saw you, I was looking down from a balcony, Juliet to your Romeo.

“Good night,” you called out.

“Good night!” I called back, even though I knew it was really goodbye. You walked away through the palm trees, headed to the beach on which we’d met.

That day had been my first day underwater as a scuba diver, and so, by the time the sun was getting low and heavy on the horizon, I was already buzzing with energy and laughter. Our dive group celebrated at the local bar, migrating to the sand as bonfires were lit, drinking cold beers and watching paper lanterns fill the sky. It was around one of those fires that I first saw you, the light flickering shades of red across your face.

“Valentin,” you offered, extending your hand. It took me aback. Today, after all was the 14th of February. “My name,” you confirmed, “is Valentin.”

There’s a time in most adolescent lives when everything starts to change, when the things you did last week now seemed juvenile. We all become misfits for some brief, difficult years, lured by the different and the dangerous. We become obsessed with something with the zeal that only teenagers possess, purposefully ostracize ourselves from the adults in our lives. Some kids turn to music. Some kids turn to drugs and alcohol. My obsession became the world itself.

There are dozens of resources that can help you prepare for an impending holiday, whether a quick trip or a much longer vacation. If you are organized, the night before you leave can (hopefully) be a relaxing one. But what about at the end of your holiday or stay in a particular place? What should you do before you go home, or before you move on to another destination?

I thought of this, months ago, while planning to leave Tel Aviv. Leaving a place isn’t as simple as just packing everything up and heading to the airport. Here, then, are some of the steps I personally take in order to prepare for the journey onwards, or in some cases, home.

The man leaned in close, his face next to mine. I could smell his breath, a mixture of tobacco and a pungent, unidentifiable spice. His arms were stained slightly indigo from the traditional robes he wore. He was a Tuareg, a true “Blue Man” of the Sahara. Though he was only in his mid-fifties, his face bore the wrinkles of a lifetime spent in the unforgiving sun.

“C’est trés difficile,” he said to me, and I nodded. We were sitting by the fire under the desert sky of the Moroccan Sahara, and he was helping me to untangle the necklaces I wore around my neck. I had bought the strands of colourful glass beads in the souks of Marrakesh only days earlier, and he worked quickly and carefully to free me from their knots.

“Captain?” I tried to make my whisper heard above the ocean’s many sighs and groans. He stirred, his eyes finally opening. He was seasick, too. When the captain’s seasick, you know it’s bad. “I think we’ve changed speeds.”

He came on deck to check the dials.

“Yes, we did, thank you for waking me,” he yawned once, stretching his arms out over his head. “We’re just sailing into a squall.”

Do you know what they say about people who love the colour red? They’re impulsive, outgoing, aggressive at times. They have a strong zest for life. They tend to be extremely optimistic, but hate monotony and crave change. They are passionate and strong, full of vigour. They are restless. They can be too quick in their decision-making; one might call them rash, hasty. They are determined to get all they can out of life.