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Still no travel post. It's such a complicated subject for me that I keep writing and rewriting, deleting and adding. On the main, I find travel a positive activity that has boosted my confidence and improved my mental health. It's not a cure-all, of course, but it has definitely eased the stifling claustrophobia with which I have lived for most of my life. I have always known there was more out there than my tiny patch of earth peopled by stucco, shoebox houses and staunchly conservative relatives, but there is a difference between knowing a thing and understanding it, between pictures on television and seeing it for yourself. Sometimes when my mind drifts these days, I find my thoughts turning to the impossible blue expanse of a Texas sky or the soaring, red buttes of Arizona and New Mexico. Those vistas were limitless and awe-inspiring, and it buoys me to think that I saw them with my own eyes, without my mother hovering over me and blighting them with her incessant worry. I was free to experience them on my own terms and to invest them with the measure of significance that I saw fit. As with New York, the pieces of Arizona and New Mexico that I took with me were mine alone, a secret between me and myself that no one can taint.
Roomie and I plan to travel more, though aside from my dream trip to Deutschland, there are no concrete plans. We've bandied about New Orleans and thought about a return trip to Atlanta to visit the aquarium in winter, when the cold keeps rowdy schoolchildren at bay and I can enjoy the exhibits. We've discussed Chicago, and I've joked about going to Maine for the lobster rolls. We both want to see Vegas again, to amble through the casinos and eat our way down the Strip, perhaps see a show. I've thought of Key West, imagined myself in some beachfront shanty, writing on the laptop while the waves roll in and Roomie snores on the couch. We could watch the sunset and then find some seafood shack and peel shrimp and eat them with cocktail sauce tart enough to make our eyes water, or eat giant bowls of chowder and sop the broth with crusty bread.
And Germany. Oh, Germany. I won't lie: I'm as terrified as I am excited at the prospect of finally going abroad. What if I fall off a curb and break my face and can't tell my doctor where it hurts or what my disabilities are? What if some drunk tries to show me his wanger on the train? What if the train or bus driver is trying to tell me something and thinks I'm just retarded or a terrible knob when I cannot respond quickly? Here, I would know what to do, or know where to find help, but there? I wouldn't have the foggiest. Where do I go if my wheelchair blows a front caster? There are passports and MMR boosters to get, not to mention travel insurance(and who wants to bet they'll gouge me for that because of my pre-existing conditions?).
But I can't imagine not going, not trying, not after so many of my formerly-impossible dreams have been realized. It could be a disaster; I could come down with a horrible stomach virus and make a hippo with the trots seem like a delightful dinner guest, but what if it isn't? What if I meet a friend and see the Brandenburg Gate at night and discover that while Sauerbraten and Sauerkraut don't do it for me, Spaetzle most certainly does? What if I find some park and spend an afternoon checking out the toned asses of handsome German men? What if it's as fabulous as I think it can be? There's only one way to find out.
Roomie and I plan to travel more, though aside from my dream trip to Deutschland, there are no concrete plans. We've bandied about New Orleans and thought about a return trip to Atlanta to visit the aquarium in winter, when the cold keeps rowdy schoolchildren at bay and I can enjoy the exhibits. We've discussed Chicago, and I've joked about going to Maine for the lobster rolls. We both want to see Vegas again, to amble through the casinos and eat our way down the Strip, perhaps see a show. I've thought of Key West, imagined myself in some beachfront shanty, writing on the laptop while the waves roll in and Roomie snores on the couch. We could watch the sunset and then find some seafood shack and peel shrimp and eat them with cocktail sauce tart enough to make our eyes water, or eat giant bowls of chowder and sop the broth with crusty bread.
And Germany. Oh, Germany. I won't lie: I'm as terrified as I am excited at the prospect of finally going abroad. What if I fall off a curb and break my face and can't tell my doctor where it hurts or what my disabilities are? What if some drunk tries to show me his wanger on the train? What if the train or bus driver is trying to tell me something and thinks I'm just retarded or a terrible knob when I cannot respond quickly? Here, I would know what to do, or know where to find help, but there? I wouldn't have the foggiest. Where do I go if my wheelchair blows a front caster? There are passports and MMR boosters to get, not to mention travel insurance(and who wants to bet they'll gouge me for that because of my pre-existing conditions?).
But I can't imagine not going, not trying, not after so many of my formerly-impossible dreams have been realized. It could be a disaster; I could come down with a horrible stomach virus and make a hippo with the trots seem like a delightful dinner guest, but what if it isn't? What if I meet a friend and see the Brandenburg Gate at night and discover that while Sauerbraten and Sauerkraut don't do it for me, Spaetzle most certainly does? What if I find some park and spend an afternoon checking out the toned asses of handsome German men? What if it's as fabulous as I think it can be? There's only one way to find out.
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