armchair travel
I have mentioned before that I am not a good traveler. Part of it is that I am not really able to take huge amounts of time away from either the library or the studio--either vacation time considerations or work backlogging more than it already does. It also makes me anxious--particularly traveling where the bulk of financing and organization falls on me (which unless I was traveling with my parents, which I used to do fairly often--trips to Texas, Georgia, Mississippi, shorts jaunts to Wisconsin.) But, mostly even then, I miss my cats and my apartment after a couple days and being away makes me feel panicky and out of control. And I can never really afford it, no matter how much I plan ahead, money becomes an issue. Various crises wind up in canceled plans and trips. I also don't fly due to terrible plane crash dreams and anxiety around the endeavor, so while I adore road trips and train rides, my options are kinda limited to the continental US regardless.
I am a big fan of my own sort of armchair traveling via books and film and scoping out places I am curious about on things like Google maps from the comfort of my apartment. Granted, not really the same, but I'm okay with that. I occasionally do weird things like take tiny faux vacations to Paris--roam around Montmartre via google maps, watch French movies, read travel blogs, and eat too many eclairs. One night I ate amazing tacos and roamed around Tijuana and SoCal (one place I actually would like to visit IRL). So much us at your fingertips and doesn't cost a cent, but there are things that don't translates, the noise of a place, the scent of a place. The intangibles.
There is also a charm to the state of being in transit, on the way to or from something. When I took the train out to Seattle a few years back for AWP, I have fond memories of rolling through the darkness of Montana, completely alone and wide awake in the middle of the night, listening to Elton John. On the way back, when we were stuck for awhile due to an avalanche ahead and delayed by almost a day, I spent a considerable portion hiding from a creepy seat mate in the lounge car and writing. There I witnessed one of the most awkward drunk girl scenarios, a college student who kept trying to kiss the older guy in a suit as he tried to politely keep her from falling over on her way back to her seat. Then she sat down across from me, noticed I was staring perplexed at my laptop, and started talking about how she could help me with whatever I was writing because she was good at it.
But no matter how much I enjoy the transit, nothing matches the relief of coming home. (especially after getting stuck on train for three days.) In my head, I idealize the fun of a road trip to the west coast, staying in weird vintage hotels. And I love New Orleans, would move there in a heartbeat if I was less afraid of hurricanes and big bugs, and settle for occasional trips. Also the Carolina coasts, which I've loved since my first semester of college and have only been back to Myrtle Beach once. And here's where I wish time travel was a thing, because I would love to see Las Vegas in it's glittery, seedier mobster days. But I always like coming back just a little more...
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