There’s something dreadful about coming back from vacation knowing you won’t be going anywhere for the rest of the year. This from a person who loves her job and company, and even so, can’t seem to sit still. Though I’m coming off the most memorable of roadtrips, it’s never enough.
Is travel ever enough? It just fuels the wanderlust, the need to get out from behind the computer. Even if it means delayed flights or mosquito bites gone horribly horribly wrong, something stirs within.
I want to hop on a plane without a semblance of a plan and stumble my way through a city, inefficiently, but enchantedly. Get drawn into a vinyl jazz recording lingering through the air on a snowy eve. Wander down streets and discover cobblestone pathways, hidden archways to walk through. Run my toes through sands of varying granularity, trace my fingers along and find fragments of shells, weathered by the ocean. Eat disgustingly unhealthy foods, made with the creamiest of butters, to consume the entire dessert landscape of a new city. Climb stairs to places unknown, just to see what lies ahead. Retrace the literary or cinematic steps of a character, see the perspective of a favorite Arles-based painting first hand. Sprawl out with a book and a blanket in a park somewhere. Sit on and wrestle a suitcase into submission.
It doesn’t ever go away.
How do you make it go away?