We’ve been living in Cambridge, Massachusetts now for six months and the fact that I spelled “Massachusetts” right on the first try shows the extent to which I’ve adjusted to New England living. We are both attending graduate school and making up for all the lost winters spent in Texas and South/Southeast Asia (at this point, there’s a record 78 inches of snow so far this month.) And it’s great. We don’t have to carry everything we own from day to day, we get to make friendships that last longer than a week, we get to cuddle with our cat (I cannot emphasize enough how much I value my cat-cuddling time). But.
But I find myself looking at google maps for hours and reading rough guides of Brazil and thinking about what time it is in Indonesia. The myth of “wanderlust” makes it seem like physically being in a different place than you are at this very moment is in itself an adventure, which has its merits. When I’m bored or dissatisfied or just colder than I want to be, I long to not be “here.” But the the real beauty of travel is that after weeks or months or even years of longing and planning and preparing, you find yourself buying butter in a Czech bodega and you are just delightfully, completely, overwhelmingly conscious of what’s around you. Travel makes buying bus tickets an adventure. It’s makes paying a bill a heroic undertaking.
So, I’m planning. Again.