Miles To Go

Traveling makes me anxious like nothing else.

Not traveling in the sense of breaking out to explore and find the globe granite. I can't think of anything more invigorating than that. This time of year, though, traveling is the opposite type: latching yourself onto a trajectory to shoot you right back to your starting point. It's the opposite of discovery.

I nearly always travel by myself, a big chunk of the anxiety itself. Don't miss your cab, your flight. Don't forget your cab money, to print your itinerary, your passport. Make sure you've looked up this bus route, locked everything up, turned everything in. Don't run out of money. I don't think I've ever overslept an alarm on a travel day because I usually only can sleep a few hours anyway. (The time of this post, case in point.) I realize it's been over three years since I flown anywhere with someone – not the serendipity of running into someone on a flight, but actually going to the same destination with somebody.

I know I'll go back and enjoy moments, to be sure, but I'm afraid I'll mostly be reminded of why I left. And while I miss the Sawtooths already, I'm relieved to not have to go back to Ketchum. Make the obligatory outing to the bar, enjoy the first part of the night when you can actually catch up with the people you want to see and care about, and as the music gets louder, start bumping into and having stilted conversations with people who either ignored or vilified me a decade ago and watch them oblige me now. Wish for myself it could have been different. But Idaho's over for now, besides the lingering 208 area code and scowl of a driver's license.

Home, on the other hand, is never over. Never can be. It mutates, though. There's no parachute of t-shirt pajamas over your spindly frame, the only thing creating any resistance as you fly down the hall or stairs to the stockings at 6 am, nor younger siblings jumping on top of you at 5:48. There were directors and orchestrators (i.e. surprisers) and masterminds, and wide-eyed surprisees. Maybe there was snow. Same food, same soundtracks, different conversations, different moods. There aren't often surprises. There are often sweet gifts. The light moments can feel like relief, but you do laugh, a lot. Some years you cry; some years you don't. There is usually snow. Thank God for the snow.