My niece was born when I was eight years old, and that event propelled my family to England. I still remember sitting with Elizabeth, holding her carefully in a room filled with porcelain, trying hard not to break the baby or the Royal Worcester. My parents and I also made the journey from Merry Olde to Paris on a hovercraft; I suppose we must have left from Dover, but I don't recall seeing its white cliffs. Regardless, I still have little bits and pieces of that trip in my head, and whenever I go to Paris, the rubbery scent of the Métro whisks me back to that time.
After that trip, I didn't leave the country again for at least 10 years, and then only to Canada. While I like Canada, it only feels like an international adventure if you have to fly there; crossing the bridge from Detroit by flashing your driver license doesn't have that same flair. In 2003, I took a solo trip to Montréal (which did feel different) and it was all over for me. Taking a plane somewhere, exploring a city, getting lost... I was hooked on travel. After that, I saved my money to go traveling every year.
Last year, it felt like I was living in a jet. I drew a flight map of my trips: three to Chicago, two to New York, two to Los Angeles, one to San Diego, one to Houston and onward to Belize City, and one from New York to Nice to Charles de Gaulle back to San Francisco. (Most were for work; I'm not independently wealthy.) It was exciting on some levels, but for a while in September, I would jolt awake in the middle of the night, not knowing where I was or what time zone I was in.
This year, I have flown only to New York. But that will soon change, because next month I'm going to Paris (predictably) and from there, to Spain. I very seriously considered wedging a two-day trip to Marrakech in there, because it is so close; however, I read that snake charmers in the market square will drape snakes on tourists and then expect them to pay money for a photo. My deep, decades-old ophidiophobia was enough to make me wait until I have a proper traveling companion to protect me from such terrors. Just thinking about that has my heart racing above a churning stomach. Oh god.
Anyway, Spain. Starting out in Barcelona and going to Granada (to make a Tony Wilson joke at the Alhambra, natch) and wherever else the mood takes me. And in the spirit of impulsiveness and adventure, Scott — a man I have met in person maybe four times, a friend of Sabrina's — is going to be my porter. Somehow, a running joke about us eloping in Paris turned into a running joke about him carrying my bags for this trip, until today we said, Hell, why not? Carpe diem, etc. So in a month, we will traipse across Spain. (I am going to Paris alone, so there will be no elopement.) We figure we'll either be best friends or we'll drive each other nuts by the end of the trip, and if it's the latter, well, he lives in Portland so it's not like we'll run into each other around town. If it's the former, what a way to launch a friendship, no? Adventure!
(PS, hoppy Easter from eleven years ago)
After that trip, I didn't leave the country again for at least 10 years, and then only to Canada. While I like Canada, it only feels like an international adventure if you have to fly there; crossing the bridge from Detroit by flashing your driver license doesn't have that same flair. In 2003, I took a solo trip to Montréal (which did feel different) and it was all over for me. Taking a plane somewhere, exploring a city, getting lost... I was hooked on travel. After that, I saved my money to go traveling every year.
Last year, it felt like I was living in a jet. I drew a flight map of my trips: three to Chicago, two to New York, two to Los Angeles, one to San Diego, one to Houston and onward to Belize City, and one from New York to Nice to Charles de Gaulle back to San Francisco. (Most were for work; I'm not independently wealthy.) It was exciting on some levels, but for a while in September, I would jolt awake in the middle of the night, not knowing where I was or what time zone I was in.
This year, I have flown only to New York. But that will soon change, because next month I'm going to Paris (predictably) and from there, to Spain. I very seriously considered wedging a two-day trip to Marrakech in there, because it is so close; however, I read that snake charmers in the market square will drape snakes on tourists and then expect them to pay money for a photo. My deep, decades-old ophidiophobia was enough to make me wait until I have a proper traveling companion to protect me from such terrors. Just thinking about that has my heart racing above a churning stomach. Oh god.
Anyway, Spain. Starting out in Barcelona and going to Granada (to make a Tony Wilson joke at the Alhambra, natch) and wherever else the mood takes me. And in the spirit of impulsiveness and adventure, Scott — a man I have met in person maybe four times, a friend of Sabrina's — is going to be my porter. Somehow, a running joke about us eloping in Paris turned into a running joke about him carrying my bags for this trip, until today we said, Hell, why not? Carpe diem, etc. So in a month, we will traipse across Spain. (I am going to Paris alone, so there will be no elopement.) We figure we'll either be best friends or we'll drive each other nuts by the end of the trip, and if it's the latter, well, he lives in Portland so it's not like we'll run into each other around town. If it's the former, what a way to launch a friendship, no? Adventure!
(PS, hoppy Easter from eleven years ago)
Labels: travel
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