Travel Reference
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exactly we've come from. I want to grab someone by the lapels and shout, “Motherfucker, I just circled the
earth! Ba-boww! What did
you
do?”
I do not grab anyone. We walk calmly through the station and out the exit. We crash at a pal's place that
night because we have no home to come home to.
We bump around for the next few weeks visiting family and friends. It's as though we can't bring
ourselves to slow to a full stop. Eventually, having exhausted the hospitality of others, we're forced to sign
a lease on an apartment. I feel a deep pang of sadness looking at the clutch of keys in my hand—front door
key, mailbox key, deadbolt key. I haven't carried keys in six months, and their weight in my pocket feels a
lot like an anchor.
Our first night in our empty new place, we sleep on an air mattress we bought for fifty bucks at a local
discount store. Lying awake, I catalog my regrets. We never rode on elephants or behind a team of sled
dogs. We never sailed on a yacht. We've so much more traveling left to do!
But in the morning, it hits me full force: For the first time in forever, there's nowhere to go next. I haven't
the energy or resources to continue this adventure. I'll sleep in this same room again tonight, and the night
after that, and the night after that.
The readjustment is brutal. The little victories and losses of day-to-day existence seem ridiculous. When
we get our furniture and clothes back from the storage company, I'm almost physically repulsed by the
sight of them. It feels like someone else's possessions. Why on earth did we ever buy all these things, and,
worse, take the trouble to preserve them while we were away? Everything I need, I now know for sure, I
can fit into a backpack.
But of course the fierceness fades. Week by week, I grow softer. Comfort and routine begin to creep back
in. We need to make money, so Rebecca finds another law firm job, and I start writing for magazines again.
We trade out our air mattress for a real bed and get a flat-screen TV and an Internet connection. We go out
to the same bars and restaurants that we did before. We're right back in the thick of it, carving new ruts.
One day, though, a few years down the line, I know we'll blow it all up again. Perhaps we'll be walking
along a beach and we'll see a sailboat, out past the breakers. I'll catch a little gleam in Rebecca's eye. And
we'll both be thinking: I wonder how far away we can get in one of those.