from a little window on pacific avenue.
In the past ten months I've boarded over 20 flights, and it's official: the suitcase I purchased last spring is kaput. But in all this traveling, the broken suitcases, cancelled flights and boarding calls, I've discovered this: Finding me is easiest when I'm far from home. My mind is clear while pounding the pavement to make it to a connecting flight, or while people-watching from an open cafe window, as I did this morning in downtown Santa Cruz. In those moments, I fulfill no role: I'm simply existing, delighting in everything around me...even a soggy five mile walk in the afternoon mist. The anonymity of travel leaves me feeling inspired, jotting furiously in my journal, smiling foolishly at locals who must find me looney...gutsy, even. Gutsy enough to slip into a Monday matinee completely solo, happily sipping my grapefruit Izzie in a theatre surrounded by white-haired senior citizens.
Travel just does something to you. Whether it be a journey of 50 or 1500 miles, you pack your suitcase, open your mind to adventure, experiencing anything that comes your way. You leave little pieces of your heart wherever you go and in the strangest way, you'll never be whole again. You'll return home and think of those places often, even visit them again, but they'll never be quite the same.
And so I've decided...perhaps the finest part of travel is in the remembering.