As the beginning of the summer approached, I began to wonder if I’d made a mistake. I looked at the schedule of travel my husband and I had committed ourselves to: nine days in Grenada visiting my grandmother, two days … Continue reading →
I love to travel. I love to pack bags, board planes, and set off to distant destinations. I love to sit in airports and read the faces of strangers for their stories.
I love to set sail. I love to cruise along as part of a city upon the ocean. I can go to sleep moored to one country and wake up anchored to another—getting a taste of this place and then that—enjoying a buffet of vistas.
I love the anticipation of travelling somewhere new, packing with uncertainty—not exactly sure what I’ll need. Weighing each item in terms of mass versus usability. What if it rains or the temperature takes an unexpected turn? What if I’m right about needing this thing or that thing? What if I’m wrong?
I love the comfort of travelling to a familiar and favorite locale—revisiting the recognizable where I’ll know what to expect and how to navigate the unexpected, always confident that I can get to where I want to be from wherever I am. I can go about packing precisely—certain of what to bring.
Travel is a welcome departure from the routine of my everyday life. It still amazes me that after a few hours of flight I can be thousands of miles away from where I started. I’ll wake in a bed that’s not my own and look out of different windows. I will not hear the same sounds of my apartment or neighborhood. New and foreign smells will seduce my nose. I will be temporarily displaced—momentarily moved to a new locale. For a season, I will be untethered from my usual responsibilities and uniquely free to do (or not do) as I please. I will journey away from myself, but I will always come home.