It doesn’t take much for me to replay the memories. A song comes on the radio, and I think back to myself wandering the streets of Wellington, crumpled map in hand and immersed both in music and scenery. I see a map of the world, and I focus automatically on the Southern Hemisphere. I hear the word “rugby,” and I remember how hyped the city of Christchurch was for the big game against South Africa. The only thing about traveling alone that really bothers me is that nobody else can see those memories. They’re for myself only. I guess it makes them special to myself, but sometimes it gets a little frustrating when I can’t find the words to convey to my friends how clear they still are to me:

The sun setting over Mt. Cook, casting a muted pink glow over the snow-capped peak. Dead, winter silence across the flat, bowl-like valley leading up to the mountain, a peak so close that I can almost reach out and touch it with my gloved hand. Sitting in a green, leather chair at the bar in the luxurious resort, drinking a well-earned beer in front of floor-to-ceiling windows that take nothing away from the view beyond.

The sweaty hike up to the lookout over Lake Wanaka. Bandanna on my head to cover up the fact that I haven’t showered in a couple days. The sense of accomplishment at reaching the summit and standing on a flattened plateau-like form that’s surrounded on all sides by the Southern Alps. Turning in a circle, not knowing which way to look because every direction is more stunning than the last. Squinting because the sun sparkling off the snow is too intense to take.

The horseback ride over rugged countryside on the foothills of those same mountains. Guiding my horse over frozen streams and crunchy snow. Feeling ridiculous, dressed in an oversized flannel shirt and a helmet that keeps slipping over my eyes. My first cantering experience on a horse, almost bouncing off my horse with every step it takes.

I made some stupid decisions, one of which was potentially life-threatening, but the freedom was something I’d never experienced before.

Seeing Wellington from above for the first time. Jagged cliffs stretching like fingers, rising directly out of turquoise water that matches the perfectly clear sky. Buildings built into the hills, going right down to the water’s edge. The tree-line cutting through the houses, designed as park area so as not to take away the wilderness from the city. Coming down from the lookout and stopping in at The Chocolate Fish, a clapboard café painted sky blue and decorated with bright mermaids and fish.

The countless bus rides where I refused to peal my nose off the glass of the huge windows. The hostels that served free homemade soup every night. The many stops to internet cafes. The elevator ride to the top of the highest building in the Southern Hemisphere. The barrage of memories that grips me with the strength of a thousand orcs from the movies that brought me here in the first place.

Coming home took a lot out of me. For days I wandered aimlessly around my house, not doing anything in particular except looking back over pictures and obsessively writing in my journal about how much it sucked to be home. I didn’t even drive for about five days — not because I thought I’d forgotten how, but because I was still confused about what side of the road the cars were supposed to go on. And I somehow thought that by refusing to drive I could retain the fantasy that I was still in a place where cars drove on the “wrong” side of the road.

Well, this is it. It’s over. For the first time in two months I’m surrounded by American accents, I can use my cell phone, I have to calculate tax and tips and deal with meaningless loose change, I have to walk on the right side, not the left.

Sleeping in my own bed tonight, in a room by myself. Going to be different. Not going anywhere or seeing anything new tomorrow. Wearing more than just the same, meager set of clothes. Driving a car on the right side of the road…so many old (new?) things to get used to again.

I complained to anyone who would listen to me that I was bored and didn’t know what to do with myself. All I wanted to talk about was my trip, and I tuned out anything not related to the previous eight weeks. My mom tried to tell me about how she was excited about my brother going off to college, my dad tried to tell me about his new job he started while I was away, my brother tried to tell me to stop moping around and to get a life — I listened to no one. I’ve heard this called the “coming home blues,” and I had about the worst case I could ever imagine. I compared everything to New Zealand and Australia — the food, the money, the accents — and all things American came up woefully short. I got used to telling the same stories over and over again and never tired of gushing about how I flung myself out of an airplane or went wine tasting or carried my backpack seven blocks in pouring rain to get to a hostel.