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Ode to my aching everything
Jan. 11th, 2010 04:10 pmConfession: I hate traveling.
Oh, when I was little, I dreamt of glamorous travel, just like every eight year old who watches too many sitcoms. My great-aunts had all sorts of stories about pre-war Europe. As a teen, I entertained fantasies about going to the west coast and seeing the sights and other nonsense. One is supposed to loooooove to travel, see the sights, meet new people, expand one's horizons, partake in culture, etc. etc.
The truth is that I abhor it dreadfully.
Oh, I've had cocktails in the cafe car (or, last night, squashed in a row of other absurdly large individuals; we joked they lumped us all together by height), but somehow, it's never worth it. Perhaps because I largely travel out of obligation: enduring the torture of Getting There might be somehow worth it if my destination were a sunny beach (with more cocktails) but somehow, I doubt it. (After all, for the money, I can buy rather a lot of vodka and cranberry juice and drink it in my own little house.) Darlings, I love you, but the internet means I never have to actually visit anyone -- we can talk here, no?
And I have a horrid memory anyway, so I don't remember any of those supposedly life-formulating "experiences" travel is supposed to bring. I do enjoy daytrips into the city -- I love D.C. -- and a few fabulous Manhattan trips might be nice when I'm a good deal richer. Whitby, someday, perhaps. But the notion of "crashing" anywhere seems putrid. I daresay I'd rather be boiled alive in my own juices than backpack through Europe. I intend to never, ever see Australia.
How nice it is, my own bed. I'm sitting here scrolling through old Martha Stewart archives, thinking of how lovely I can make my tiny little house. How nice to be home... where my bottles of vodka are full sized.
Oh, when I was little, I dreamt of glamorous travel, just like every eight year old who watches too many sitcoms. My great-aunts had all sorts of stories about pre-war Europe. As a teen, I entertained fantasies about going to the west coast and seeing the sights and other nonsense. One is supposed to loooooove to travel, see the sights, meet new people, expand one's horizons, partake in culture, etc. etc.
The truth is that I abhor it dreadfully.
Oh, I've had cocktails in the cafe car (or, last night, squashed in a row of other absurdly large individuals; we joked they lumped us all together by height), but somehow, it's never worth it. Perhaps because I largely travel out of obligation: enduring the torture of Getting There might be somehow worth it if my destination were a sunny beach (with more cocktails) but somehow, I doubt it. (After all, for the money, I can buy rather a lot of vodka and cranberry juice and drink it in my own little house.) Darlings, I love you, but the internet means I never have to actually visit anyone -- we can talk here, no?
And I have a horrid memory anyway, so I don't remember any of those supposedly life-formulating "experiences" travel is supposed to bring. I do enjoy daytrips into the city -- I love D.C. -- and a few fabulous Manhattan trips might be nice when I'm a good deal richer. Whitby, someday, perhaps. But the notion of "crashing" anywhere seems putrid. I daresay I'd rather be boiled alive in my own juices than backpack through Europe. I intend to never, ever see Australia.
How nice it is, my own bed. I'm sitting here scrolling through old Martha Stewart archives, thinking of how lovely I can make my tiny little house. How nice to be home... where my bottles of vodka are full sized.
