On Travel

We rescued a frog in our bathroom today; my mother suspected it came out of the drain. I stepped outside the house several times to follow the nightly feeding of a giant spider who’d caught a dragonfly in her net. When I stuck my head out from under the roof to get a different view I nearly collided with another of its kind. Their webs span entire stretches of the yard. At dusk, the bush comes alive with kangaroos and birds and other wildlife; Seventh Avenue seems quiet and calm in comparison.

Overall, Seventh Avenue feels terribly far away. Like a dream I had of another life, and then you wake up in the morning in your real world and can’t believe how lifelike it all seemed. I saw a picture of Greenwich Village houses along the West Side Highway in a magazine today and couldn’t quite comprehend that that was my city as well. My accent changes slightly to adhere to local standards; these round American words that come out normally don’t quite seem to fit. I imagine that this is my life, this is my home, and the thought isn’t entirely farfetched. If an Australian voice only spoke softly enough into my ear I believe I could be convinced to stay.

Perhaps such is the magic of travel. A reminder of possibilities unrealized, a reminder of dreams within reach. I could get rid of all my things, I could get up and go. I long to clean out my fifty square feet and prepare to pounce. I long to be ready. If someone, anyone, said Let’s go, I’d be out the door in a heartbeat.

Although the tradeoff would have to be something immensely appealing.

Australia, darling, when will you tell me let’s go?