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 |   ON THE WRITE PATH: travel journal for Around-the-World in 2015, 16, 18. |
| A traveler1 has caught the wanderlust bug and cannot let it go... so they go... everywhere. The tourist 2 seeks wonder or thrills whilst a vacationer vacates. A toad3 sits content in a garden patiently watching the flies. Traveler, tourist, toad? I've been all three, not as a trinity, just as me. I've wandered around the world on a personal quest to not be bored, not to be boring. Yet, I've been 'there' because everyone goes there. And, I've cocooned and slept away in a daze... perhaps to dream. So much to learn; have I ever been to me? At age 21 I wanted to know what it was like to be a stranger in a strange land. I went to live with a wonderful family in Costa Rica and had a nervous breakdown. I healed in a small Kansas town. I became friends with poverty in Nebraska. By age 25 I saw how the poorer helped the poorest survive. I returned home to live under the roof and thumb of my family. For the next 35 years I snoozed. But the dreams of caterpillars became my dreams. In the waking world I moved to Canada to stay with friends in their attic on their one-cow farm. I moved to the inner city with a Mohawk landlady and a rose window by the front door. I survived planned Wednesday night gatherings and unplanned trips to the hospital (twice on Labor Day). I changed jobs. But, I didn't leave. By age 40 I had a garden with a lovely house and planned bigger events and worked on racial and religious divisions. I housed refugees and street people. I was never paid for my vocation4. When I over-extended myself, acted foolish, and lost it all, I ran away. I landed in small town Oklahoma, learning yet another culture and way-of-life. I was writing. I was poor. I was happy. But 'disaster' followed and I learned what it was like to fight over a 2 inch mat on the floor. Yes, I survived; but, being homeless for two years left its scars. Moving to Montana slowly healed the bruises. I'd found a safe cocoon. But, I began to change. I sprouted wings. I vacationed in England and revisited and moved to Costa Rica. By age 60 I finally saw the snow-capped vidda5 and fjords of Norway below me as I flew into Bergen. I had made a dream come true for my inner 12 year old. Yes, I've been to touristy places like Charles Bridge in Prague, and have photos to prove it, but the peacocks and people, like Elisson's laughter, in the park in Évora, Portugal intrigued me more. My travels have been eclectic. I've enjoyed the taste of goat cheese and herring for breakfast in Lillehammer, took a picture of plastic floating in a Paris canal, felt the rough bark of a ginkgo holding onto embedded coins in Yamadera, heard the crash of thunderous storms in Pérez Zeledón and Udon Thani, and inhaled the intoxicating mix of flowers and garbage in San José... ah, mi lindo pais and felt that I was home. Tonight, Pannya softly snores next to me, he the tadpole, me the toad. This is where the winding road, a new adventure hiding around every bend, has led me. Seldom the tourist, forever the dreamy traveler, now just worn-out and old. ~660 words Footnotes |
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