Not Going Anywhere

Not Going Anywhere

My vacation piggy bank, which is full of nickels, if I’m lucky.

I don’t ever go anywhere. Well, not that much.

I was just talking to Adrian about how happy I am that I’m not really going anywhere this summer. Last summer, I went everywhere. Two weeks in Red Wing for a writer residency thing. A week in France. A week Up North. Ten days in Tacoma. There was always a half-packed suitcase on my bedroom floor. I felt like I was never fucking home.

This summer feels all luxurious to me. I’m only going to Tacoma, which isn’t until August, and which is my divine Adult Summer Camp AKA low-residency MFA program. So that whole vast slate of unscheduled time makes me swell with happiness.

And I guess I’m teaching six classes over 3 weeks, but that is fun. Because they pay me to talk about The Hunger Games. Who wouldn’t want to do that?

Traveling is not something I do well anymore. This didn’t used to be the case. When I was younger, all I wanted to do was get on an airplane and go places. California. Mexico. Italy. Spain. Germany. Colombia. Guatemala. Ecuador.

But then after a really hairy flight to Costa Rica in 2001, I developed the unshakeable feeling that every plane I’d ever go on was going to crash. So that made going places a dreadful prospect.

Even though I have some pretty sweet medications I can take to knock me out when I have to step on a plane, the whole process has revealed to me that I also have some natural trepidations about going to faraway places. I dunno if I need a thicker membrane between me and the world, but I get enough stimulation just walking from my home office into my crappy little kitchen. I don’t really need to go to another country in order to get my neurons to fire, yanno?

Also, I like knowing where my hair products are. And having a huge closet full of choices. All the shoes I want. All the belts I want. I hate the constricted efficiency travel demands.

And I only speak English and Spanish (I kinda speak Spanish, but only in emergencies). So I feel like a dickhole going somewhere without being equipped properly with language skills, typical monoglot American.

There are only a few places I’m interested in traveling to anymore. They are:

Italy
Australia
New Zealand
Argentina
the United Kingdom (like, the whole thing. Including Ireland.)
Turkey (shhh, don’t tell my father)

2 Comments

  • Carrie Mesrobian on Mar 15, 2013 Reply

    I wish you could just be put in a medically-induced coma until you reach your destination. Like, pile people up in the cargo bay and be done with it. I don’t want your drink service or your bad movies or to feel the whole giant contraption swoop around and shudder.

  • Matthew MacNish on Mar 15, 2013 Reply

    I’m waiting until until we have bullet trains under the ocean to go to Europe. I flew like 10 times a year when I was younger, like it was no joke, but ever since I had kids, I’m terrified of flying. Well … not flying so much as crashing and burning. It’s just not how I want to die.

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