Midlife
crisis hit me with a wanderlust that got under my skin like a cactus
barb in the barefoot heel of a hillbilly child. Sure, I have loved
adventure and travel all my life, but when I hit my 40's that barb
spread it's hallucinogenic toxin throughout my bloodstream and into all
my vital organs as if it were a mainline drip.
I
love everything about travel. I love the airport people watching, the sound of my suitcase
wheels click clacking over the sidewalk lines, the adrenaline rush of
takeoff and landing, the gossipy airplane staff oblivious to their voice
decibels because of the constant pressure on their inner ear, and the cornucopia of
single serving friends that Tyler Durden spoke of before I
obtained my first passport.
Deciphering
the ins and outs of a new place feeds my wanderlust like Gouda feeds
Bordeaux. (Yes please, I'll have seconds! and, are you going to eat
that grape?) When my feet hit new ground, the quests begins. Olly,
Olly, All Come Free! Time to find the perfect sun drenched path leading
to the best local lunch, happiest happy hour, and most breathtaking
place to watch the sun rise and set. I play association games to
remember subway stops and street names. In Madrid last spring I
remembered the Tirso de Molina stop because it was like Tiramisu, only
different. I would smile every time I saw it, and I smile now
remembering how silly it was, and how well it worked.
