Damn, that's good.
I wish it were mine. It's a slogan I saw last week on a "Visit Costa Rica" ad. I'm holding onto it like a tiny, polished rock in my pocket as I make my way through this final week before my departure to Honduras.
As I write this, it's eleven degrees in New York. Our local sensationalist weatherpeople are pulling out the fancy descriptive words, dusting 'em off and throwing 'em at our tv screens. "Snap", "bitter", "frigid". The ancient "feels like it's" wind-chill hymn floats and winds its way through the barren branches of the few trees that line Park Avenue. I was going to say the weather is all anyone fucking talks about but I've just realized it's all I fucking talked about for an entire paragraph.
I left my backpack on the floor this morning, bursting from every seam with OFF DEET and little packets of oatmeal. I've got Advil, Cipro, Pepto, all the one-word remedies. I'm loaded up with mini bottles of every conceivable necessity. Packing up this weekend had its usual haunting familiarity. The routine of it, the sort of odd, jaded feeling that washes over me as I stare at a pyramid of rolled up underwear on the couch. It just always strikes me sort of hard in the chest that I can make a home out of something I carry on my back. It feels somber and empowering all at once.
I watched a travel show last week where the host described the Greek culture as having intense wanderlust tempered by a deep need to be home. Pow! Another hard strike in the chest. That's me--that duality. Wanderlust slowly tattoos itself onto my psyche, making itself permanent, ingrained, undeniable. A living, colorful scar. And then there's home with its comfortable magnetic pull. I'm Christina in the Wyeth painting: always crawling through the grass to get back. That's gotta be the strange, jaded cloud that hangs over my packing for a big trip. I need to go fill up my heart's camera but...well, I'll be leaving home at the top of the hill.
About the camera, for a moment. I am going to find home in a backpack for two weeks, indeed. But before I go, I promise to let you all in on what exactly it is we're doing in fair Honduras. Look for one more post from me before I go with a few precious details. Let's say we're hoping that this post's title is true only on other trips.
If all goes as planned, when we return on March 1st heart and camera will be equal.
I wish it were mine. It's a slogan I saw last week on a "Visit Costa Rica" ad. I'm holding onto it like a tiny, polished rock in my pocket as I make my way through this final week before my departure to Honduras.
As I write this, it's eleven degrees in New York. Our local sensationalist weatherpeople are pulling out the fancy descriptive words, dusting 'em off and throwing 'em at our tv screens. "Snap", "bitter", "frigid". The ancient "feels like it's" wind-chill hymn floats and winds its way through the barren branches of the few trees that line Park Avenue. I was going to say the weather is all anyone fucking talks about but I've just realized it's all I fucking talked about for an entire paragraph.
I left my backpack on the floor this morning, bursting from every seam with OFF DEET and little packets of oatmeal. I've got Advil, Cipro, Pepto, all the one-word remedies. I'm loaded up with mini bottles of every conceivable necessity. Packing up this weekend had its usual haunting familiarity. The routine of it, the sort of odd, jaded feeling that washes over me as I stare at a pyramid of rolled up underwear on the couch. It just always strikes me sort of hard in the chest that I can make a home out of something I carry on my back. It feels somber and empowering all at once.
I watched a travel show last week where the host described the Greek culture as having intense wanderlust tempered by a deep need to be home. Pow! Another hard strike in the chest. That's me--that duality. Wanderlust slowly tattoos itself onto my psyche, making itself permanent, ingrained, undeniable. A living, colorful scar. And then there's home with its comfortable magnetic pull. I'm Christina in the Wyeth painting: always crawling through the grass to get back. That's gotta be the strange, jaded cloud that hangs over my packing for a big trip. I need to go fill up my heart's camera but...well, I'll be leaving home at the top of the hill.
About the camera, for a moment. I am going to find home in a backpack for two weeks, indeed. But before I go, I promise to let you all in on what exactly it is we're doing in fair Honduras. Look for one more post from me before I go with a few precious details. Let's say we're hoping that this post's title is true only on other trips.
If all goes as planned, when we return on March 1st heart and camera will be equal.
2 comments:
You leave me jealous for a pyramid of balled up undies.
I lug so much kiddo crud with me now, it never feels as adventurous to travel.
Let me live vicariously.
I just finally saw that poster on the Subway. It IS good. Our slogan's better, though.
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