I crave the chance to experience new vistas, near and far. Exquisite architecture in European cities, and simple tree-lined vintage neighborhoods in different towns across America, all of them call to me.
But I live with the knowledge that, ironically, I am tethered to my little mountain house. There are several reasons for this. The first reason being that extensive traveling requires funds, which, at the present, I do not possess. The second being that dealing with a chronic autoimmune condition often causes the need to curl up like a boiled shrimp at any given moment, which would be awkward, on say, a bus tour of famous English cathedrals.
Thirdly, I have a completely cream-puff need to be back in my own bed each night. I cannot help it. It is a primal longing to be in my own space as I lay me down. I keep waiting for the invention of the equivalent of the Star Trek transporter, to beam me home each night…GO technology, Go Scotty!!!!
And finally, I don’t actually like to travel. That is, I like the part where you get there, but not the process of arriving…This, I feel sure, is due to my childhood. I was a piteous child who got motion-sick if I watched a car chase on the television. Our family took many trips to places like; Yellow Stone, Mt. Rushmore, The Grand Canyon, The Grand Tetons, The vast stretches of Texas and the golden plains of Kansas.
I staggered through it all in a Dramamine induced stupor. My parents would wake me up at important land marks and attractions; “The World’s Largest Ball of String”, “the Mystery Spot”, “Knotts Berry Farm”, where I would stare owlishly and wipe the sleep-drool off of my chin. Taking deep breaths I would try to take in everything; from the stunning national parks and geysers to the colorful ‘Indian’ offerings at roadside stands in the pink and purple mesas of New Mexico.
I hated the “getting there” my choices were puking or sleeping….I had to have been the most well behaved child EVER in the history of automotive travel….it is hard to pull any shenanigans when you’re nodding off over your cheese burger and fries…all of the restaurants and drive-ins just blurred together. Except for the time we stopped and I ordered a strawberry shake ‘to go’ I drank it while staring out the side window on the windy road and promptly through the exact amount back up into the ‘to go’ cup…..
So, my mother had to choose between barf bags or Dramamine. It was really a no-brainer, but now, I am what I am, it formed me and shaped me into the Veruca Salt of travel…”But I want to be there NOW…”
Though I long deeply to travel the British Isles, I believe I would be a raving loon by the time I disembarked from a trans-Atlantic flight.
And now, I also completely believe, with my whole heart, that there is not a country left in the world, including Canada, where Americans are not secretly hated and I would not be immediately kidnapped if the tour guide simply turned away to point out the strange and unusual restrooms. Some places actually only provide you a hole in the floor, and signs illustrating proper squatting techniques!
So here I sit, in my prosaically familiar home with my own bleached bathroom, and my own bed to curl up on, dreaming of far away, exotic places. Tonya Willman © 2011
But I live with the knowledge that, ironically, I am tethered to my little mountain house. There are several reasons for this. The first reason being that extensive traveling requires funds, which, at the present, I do not possess. The second being that dealing with a chronic autoimmune condition often causes the need to curl up like a boiled shrimp at any given moment, which would be awkward, on say, a bus tour of famous English cathedrals.
Thirdly, I have a completely cream-puff need to be back in my own bed each night. I cannot help it. It is a primal longing to be in my own space as I lay me down. I keep waiting for the invention of the equivalent of the Star Trek transporter, to beam me home each night…GO technology, Go Scotty!!!!
And finally, I don’t actually like to travel. That is, I like the part where you get there, but not the process of arriving…This, I feel sure, is due to my childhood. I was a piteous child who got motion-sick if I watched a car chase on the television. Our family took many trips to places like; Yellow Stone, Mt. Rushmore, The Grand Canyon, The Grand Tetons, The vast stretches of Texas and the golden plains of Kansas.
I staggered through it all in a Dramamine induced stupor. My parents would wake me up at important land marks and attractions; “The World’s Largest Ball of String”, “the Mystery Spot”, “Knotts Berry Farm”, where I would stare owlishly and wipe the sleep-drool off of my chin. Taking deep breaths I would try to take in everything; from the stunning national parks and geysers to the colorful ‘Indian’ offerings at roadside stands in the pink and purple mesas of New Mexico.
I hated the “getting there” my choices were puking or sleeping….I had to have been the most well behaved child EVER in the history of automotive travel….it is hard to pull any shenanigans when you’re nodding off over your cheese burger and fries…all of the restaurants and drive-ins just blurred together. Except for the time we stopped and I ordered a strawberry shake ‘to go’ I drank it while staring out the side window on the windy road and promptly through the exact amount back up into the ‘to go’ cup…..
So, my mother had to choose between barf bags or Dramamine. It was really a no-brainer, but now, I am what I am, it formed me and shaped me into the Veruca Salt of travel…”But I want to be there NOW…”
Though I long deeply to travel the British Isles, I believe I would be a raving loon by the time I disembarked from a trans-Atlantic flight.
And now, I also completely believe, with my whole heart, that there is not a country left in the world, including Canada, where Americans are not secretly hated and I would not be immediately kidnapped if the tour guide simply turned away to point out the strange and unusual restrooms. Some places actually only provide you a hole in the floor, and signs illustrating proper squatting techniques!
So here I sit, in my prosaically familiar home with my own bleached bathroom, and my own bed to curl up on, dreaming of far away, exotic places. Tonya Willman © 2011
