I’m laying in bed reading, and I felt like writing some. Doctor Strange is playing on the television, background noise at this point, as I’ve probably watched it half a dozen times since it arrived courtesy of the Disney Movie Club two weeks ago. My mutt, One, can’t decide if he wants to lay on the bed with me or be let out. He’ll jump down, run around the room, and then half hop up, waiting for me to lift his back half. He’s half-boxer, half-pit bull, as lazy as he is spoiled, and I’ll miss him when I leave on Friday.
The time has come for travelling back to Europe, a 24-day trek through six countries and nine cities.
I’m thinking of course of the London attacks today, and wishing for a safer world. I’m thinking of last year’s trip to Ireland and Scotland, and wonder why I didn’t explore more of the world before. I’m thinking of the stack of unread books I’m leaving in wait for me, and of the beat-up copy of On the Road I’ll be taking with me. And I’m thinking of what I’ll do when I get back.
One is curled up beside me, as I reread Susan Orlean’s intro to The Best American Travel Writing 2007. This passage stood out: “I’d also figured out something about the nature of travel. For the first time, it seemed clear to me that travel is not about finding something: it’s about getting lost – that is, it is about losing yourself in a place and a moment.”
Well, here’s to getting lost!