I’m in a bar in a hotel in San Diego. I’d like to be able to tell you why I’m here, but that part isn’t quite so clear to me.
It started innocently enough, as these things often do. I was having lunch with Pen, and we were having a discussion about passion. I’m reading a host of books right now about new careers and finding the vocation that makes you jump out of bed with unrepressed joy most days (not period days, of course, because nothing is that good). Much to my continued dismay, I don’t seem to have a passion for anything. I have lots of interests. I have vague intrigues, but nothing that drives me. Worse, I tend to fall into things that occupy my time because I’m good at them, rather than for the love of them– and then stay doing them for 16 years.
Travel is one of those interests. Or rather destinations are of interest. Exploration of new places is an interest. The actual traveling I could do without– planes, trains and automobiles all have their extreme downsides. If you could convince me that my molecules would all end up in the same place in the same and appropriate order, I might be on board with teleporting. But as it stands now, my options all seem limited and annoying. Still, there is a wanderlust in me that is hard to deny.
I’ve done my best to suppress it. I once hit 13 countries in one year. But then my passport was exhausted, and my brain and body stuck to moving households within the continental U.S. Even that skidded to a stop once I got to L.A. Despite the occasional foray, I’ve largely remained mired in my internal dialogue rather than my external wanderings.
Apparently, I’ve had enough navel gazing. I mentioned reading about the gaslamp district in San Diego to Pen. We agreed it sounded like fun. I’d like to say there was a well-thought out plan after that moment– something premeditated, at least. Instead, I took my leftovers, and settled into my apartment for a rousing game of “what do I do now?”
Two and a half hours later I was settling myself into a hotel in San Diego. Just because I could, it was there and there was no reason not to do it. And now I’m reclining on the rooftop bar, writing this blog, sipping my Malbec and agreeing with my people (i.e. Strangers watching the baseball game in the bar) that St. Louis has made a lot of errors in this game.
I imagine I’ll be home soon. Probably. Possibly. But I guess you never know.