I’m about to embark on a vacation and then not a vacation and then a vacation again.
Tomorrow to Maine to enjoy some time in the rain reading with Abby. Some lobster, some cold ocean, Acadia and Portland.
Back for a day and a half.
Then flying to Santa Barbara for a few days of work.
Quick flight to San Francisco, a not terribly short drive up the coast to some place I do not know for two nights.
And finally back.
Blessedly back.
I can already feel the need for being back.
Tomorrow to Maine to enjoy some time in the rain reading with Abby. Some lobster, some cold ocean, Acadia and Portland.
Back for a day and a half.
Then flying to Santa Barbara for a few days of work.
Quick flight to San Francisco, a not terribly short drive up the coast to some place I do not know for two nights.
And finally back.
Blessedly back.
I can already feel the need for being back.
I told my sister that I don’t like travelling. She said nobody does. This surprised me, as she is clearly someone who does, in fact love to travel.
She thought I meant the flying part.
I meant the whole thing.
Frankly, I find airports and airplanes kind of charming. When I was younger I enjoyed flying because I could read non-stop for hours. I’d finish books with speed otherwise denied me by what I was lucky to never have diagnosed as ADD.
It’s the getting there part that really grinds me down.
She thought I meant the flying part.
I meant the whole thing.
Frankly, I find airports and airplanes kind of charming. When I was younger I enjoyed flying because I could read non-stop for hours. I’d finish books with speed otherwise denied me by what I was lucky to never have diagnosed as ADD.
It’s the getting there part that really grinds me down.
The things I bring into my life start with stories: my favorite large pan for example was found perfectly seasoned and smooth, an antique in some random Good Will outside of Seattle. It has only grown more beloved since then. It has only accrued more stories.
If I find some element of my domestic life to be wanting, within reason, I fix it. Most often in a custom or at least marginally interesting or perhaps unusual way.
When I am confronted by the pans of strangers, and the stoves of strangers, and their beds, and their cities, I don’t know their stories, and the stories are what make me comfortable.
Why is this thus, and what is the reason for this thusness?
I really, really try to have reasons for everything I do. Failing that, I like to have reasons for every-thing I own. The things I own tend to dictate much of what I do. If I didn’t have such a damn fine pan I might have a harder time frying eggs, and if I had a harder time frying eggs well, I’d be f*****.