The trip: Tiring, yes; but boring? Never!

I know how Dorothy felt when she got back to Kansas: “There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home!”

Don’t get me wrong. My grand journey in September and October to “Oz,” or in this case France and England, was amazing. After losing my job nearly two years ago, I had grown so bored and boring I was losing my mind. Much as I loved it, my house had become almost a prison. I needed some perspective. I needed to hit my reset button.

That was what this trip was all about – digging me out of my rut. Reminding me that there was a huge world out there beyond my solarium. Giving me some new things to see, hear, smell and taste. Helping me see my life through a new lens.

My couple of months abroad accomplished all that, and more. One of my short-term goals was to stay in my beloved England long enough at one stretch that I was ready to come home. In all of my previous 16 or 17 trips there, I never got to that point. This time, I finally did.

I was profoundly grateful for the opportunity to spend this time away from Charlotte, but hallelujah! I was glad to get back!

I've been back six weeks now, long enough to process the journey from both the mental and physical perspective. Being away made me appreciate so many things I was taking for granted. I could probably have managed doing without one or two things. But I realize that at my age I’ve become accustomed to a certain level of creature comforts and conveniences. I don’t live in luxury, but I like my “stuff.” I’ve worked hard for my stuff, and things around here are geared to making my life pretty easy and comfortable.

Therefore, the cumulative effect of not having this stuff – which I’ve learned to view as basics – made life abroad harder than I would have liked. I know one doesn’t travel in order to replicate your experiences at home, but the day-to-day effort required to keep body and soul together shouldn’t wear you slam out.

To be fair, much of my difficulty stemmed from my back. Pain is not a welcome traveling companion. All those old bones and nerves in my lumbar region are a hot mess and as a result, walking was painful. And let’s face it, travel requires a lot of walking. If I sat, I was somewhat OK, except when sitting on the furniture in my exchange houses, most of which must have been designed by the Marquis de Sade. Comfortable, well-padded lounge chairs don’t seem to be widely marketed abroad. More’s the pity; the Barco-Lounger people could make a killing over there.

But I digress. My British house had some nice love seats in their “drawing room,” but unfortunately it was not heated, and while the rest of the house was only lukewarm under the best of circumstances, I was drawn instead to what little heat I could find, regardless of the tortuous nature of the furniture. Sitting was bad enough, but if I stood up the pain was unrelenting. Add to my general mobility issues was the fact that both houses in which I stayed had steep stairs. Ouch.

So at the top of my list of “stuff” I missed was an accessible house with back-friendly furniture. Hauling laundry downstairs (to wash it) and back upstairs (to dry it, a particularly time-consuming and tedious process) was aggravating. At home I do have stairs leading to the loft, but I seldom go up there. Over the years, my loft has become cosmetic rather than functional.

Other things I loved coming home to: A full-sized car with automatic transmission. My solarium. Sirius XM satellite radio. A washing machine with a 30-minute cycle (rather than 2 ½ hours). A clothes drier! My walk-in shower. A well-designed kitchen. Good reading lamps. Screens on the windows during warm weather, and cozy central heat during cold spells. A large variety of nearby eating establishments. Lower gas prices. Free parking. Abundant autumn SUNSHINE!

Bottom line: Coping with the absence of ALL of this stuff got on my very last nerve. There, I’ve said it. Maybe I could’ve handled it better 20, 15 or even 10 years ago. But add all of these irritants to back pain and it’s a recipe for exhaustion.

I also realized that while I’m hardly hostile to the environment, the Europeans have sustainability programmed into their DNA. We Americans have a long way to go to match their admirable “green” attitude. The difference in our approaches to energy conservation is nothing short of profound. How many of us lay our freshly washed clothes on the grass in the sunshine to save the electricity needed to operate the tumble drier? I swear, my French exchangers are so energy-conscious they follow this Medieval practice! Of course, they’re also the ones who have no garbage can indoors, choosing instead to recycle flimsy plastic grocery bags for all their kitchen waste…But that’s another story.

On the flip side – the happy side! – I had some extraordinary experiences which I’ll savor for the rest of my life: Visiting Versailles in France. Lingering at sidewalk cafes for hours with Susan and Little Margaret in Paris. Hearing the Winchester Cathedral Choirs in concert while sitting on Jane Austen’s grave. Hearing a choral concert in London centering on the theme, “Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer’s Day?,” in which every single song had a text by William Shakespeare. Seeing “Priscilla, Queen of the Desert: The Musical” for the second time in London’s West End – this time on the front row. Rambling by car through the glorious English countryside, Classic-FM turned up high, without an itinerary or a care in the world. Having afternoon tea in Bath’s historic Pump Room with six new British friends.

Something wonderful, silly, unexpected, provocative, remarkable, exasperating or unusual happened every day – a welcome change from the rut in which I had become mired before the trip. I wanted to wake up over there and not be able to predict what each day would bring – and I totally got that! Life took on a fresh new sheen again, and for this 62-year-old, the value of that is immeasurable.

Would I trade anything in the world for the experience of spending two months abroad? No way! Would I go back? Well, maybe not to Paris, and certainly not to that particular house. But back to the U.K.? Are you kidding? In a heartbeat! I might have been eager to get back to Charlotte, but I’m still an Anglophile to the bone. God save the Queen!