Leaving Las Palmas

Summary: 4 months in Las Palmas left much to be desired, but did provide one gleaming gem of conviction.

I've yet to meet someone who enjoys the process of moving. Whilst trying to put your life into a few bags, scrubbing and mopping the last few remnants from what was your home and tying up the inevitable loose ends, one seems drawn to recount for their time.

Writing from London where I've been for just under a week, Las Palmas shall survive only in fragments; there were no great lessons, no life-changing experiences, and very little splendor. There were laughs, friends made and many-a-beer thrown back while spouting about 'living life'. In the strictest sense, that was likely true and yet, I don't feel much better for having been there. There were vicious fights between some; callous and cruel indications of the divide between people unwilling to empathize with one another. There was tortilla española, acetunas, fútbol and Carnaval, but one of our last meals was astonishingly overcooked tuna. There were a few nice locals, but mostly they seemed cold and uninterested in my attempts to connect. Perhaps I failed Las Palmas or perhaps the opposite is true, but the sentiment of dissatisfaction permeates all contemplated variants.

There was, however, one revelation that was born in the sands of Las Canteras beach with the aide of Nick Warren's GU030:Paris. I am to continue my journey; a leg who's path will lead to either an indelible, lasting effect on my life or bring about my early demise.

I am to return to Africa.