The mathematics of leaving (part two)
It's 07:20 and I'm sitting on my balcony for the last time, watching the port come alive in the morning light. My bags are packed. My checkout is in two hours. The ferry to Egypt leaves at 14:00.
I've been here ten days.
Ten days in a place I planned to stay three. Ten days of watching the same sunrise paint the same water different colors. Ten days of the same balcony, the same coffee going cold, the same port lights reflecting off the Red Sea.
The waiter at the beachside café asked yesterday if I was finally leaving. "Finally," he said, smiling. "I thought maybe you forgot how to travel."
Maybe I did. Or maybe I learned something else.
The pull of water
I came here from Petra needing contrast—needing movement after all that ancient stillness. I got the Red Sea, the sound of waves, the smell of salt air. I snorkeled twice, saw the coral reefs and tropical fish that shouldn't exist this far north. I walked the Corniche at sunset five times. I ate fresh fish at three different restaurants.
I did everything I came to do by day three.
And then I stayed seven more days.
The restlessness that usually drives me forward just... paused. Not gone, but quiet. Like it was waiting for something. Like I was supposed to be still for a moment.
I've spent these extra days mostly on this balcony. Writing. Thinking. Watching the ships come and go while I stayed put. Calculating and recalculating the mathematics that don't add up.
145 days remaining. 57 days until my booked departure from France. I need to see more. I need to move faster. But something in me has been refusing to leave.
Until this morning.
What staying taught me
In Cairo, I learned the value of stillness when the heat made movement impossible. That was forced—the weather made the decision for me.
This was different. This was choosing to stay when I could have left. Choosing to sit with the restlessness instead of running from it. Choosing to let the same view become familiar instead of always chasing the new.
I'm not sure I learned anything profound. But I think I learned that not every moment of travel needs to be productive. Not every day needs to be filled with new experiences and checked-off bucket list items.
Sometimes you just need to sit on a balcony and watch the light change on the water. Sometimes the journey is about learning to be still, even when your whole body is screaming at you to move.
The waiter was right though. I did forget how to travel. Or at least, I forgot the version of travel I started with—the constant movement, the restless seeking, the belief that the next place would have the answer I was looking for.
Ten days in Aqaba. I saw the Red Sea. I snorkeled the reefs. I walked the Corniche. I watched the port.
And I learned that sometimes the most important thing you can do is stay.
Egypt awaits
But now it's time to go. Not because the restlessness is back in full force, but because I made a commitment. I booked a ferry. I have a plan. And part of this journey is learning to honor my commitments, even when staying feels easier.
Egypt is next. Another country, another set of experiences. I'll take the ferry across the Red Sea to Nuweiba, then make my way to the Sinai Peninsula. I have no plans beyond that—just the knowledge that I need to be in France by October 7th.
145 days. It feels simultaneously like forever and not nearly enough time.
I'm finishing my coffee—it's gone cold again, but I drink it anyway. The sun is fully up now, burning off the morning haze. The port is busy with its daily rhythm. Ships coming and going, always moving, always transitioning between here and there.
Maybe that's what I needed to see. That you can be in motion and still have moments of stillness. That the port itself doesn't travel, but it's essential to everything that does.
I'll pack up my laptop now. Check out at 09:00. Find some breakfast. Board the ferry at 14:00.
Aqaba, you taught me something I didn't know I needed to learn. Thank you for letting me stay.
Next stop: Egypt. The journey continues.