Finding My Fix: Chronicles of a Travel Junkie

It hasn’t hit me yet that in two weeks I will be arriving in Paris. I know it’s true, but only superficially. I can only imagine, but can’t grasp that I will be homeless for 4 months (possibly longer if I can’t find a place to live in NYC right away). I have to admit that as this trip approaches, the little piece of me that knows the truth has turned into the whining child not wanting to leave the birthday party just yet. (It’s the best analogy I can come up with at the moment). That part of me feels comfortable here, settled into a routine. It’s something that doesn’t happen too often. But I go to bed at one when I’m tired and wake up at eight without fail to the sunlight streaming through the blinds. It’s comfortable; the child doesn’t want it to change.

One more metaphor, I don’t like it when my feet are cold and wet, and that’s what this child fears, cold, wet feet. Irrational fears are springing up… what if the plane crashes, what if the airline loses my luggage, what if my backpack is stolen? I don’t know Italian, or Turkish or Arabic! I’ve never had these fears before; where have they come from? What happened to that need for travel like it were food? The past few weeks, I’ve managed to feel something I had felt only while traveling, the feeling of living in the present tense, the tomorrow that comes in no more than 24 hours. It’s a wonderful feeling. I suppose I don’t want to disrupt it with change. But then there’s a smaller part of me, just waking up to the smell of adventure. That part says it can only get better. That part is the part that is truly living in the present, and it is wise enough to know that when my flight lands in Paris, I will be jumping in my seat, craning my neck to see out the window. And so it begins, the period of excitement and terror in anticipation. I am about to embark on my third big trip alone. Whew.

Yesterday I said goodbye to Claire, my grandmother’s minister’s daughter who I was playing host to for two days while she visited the city. She has quite a few travel stories of her own, which are far more exciting than any I can remember having, such as missing a flight from San Fran to Albequerque, hopping on a plane to Denver, renting a car with another stranded passenger, and driving to Santa Fe overnight, arriving just in time for her friend’s graduation.

I rode up to Penn Station with her and saw her off. At about 5:30, I hopped back on the A train and headed toward W4th Street, but when the train pulled into the station, I was too comfortable sitting there, sideways, my feet stretched out in front of me, the rocking train lulling me into meditation. I started to wonder what would happen if this particular train went on forever. What would happen if the track was endless, if I could just sit there comfortably, half-conscious for the rest of my life.

We passed Canal St station, and I decided, it had been too long since the last and only time I’ve been to Coney Island. I decided it would be just as nice to squish along the beach, sand leaking into my shoes, as it would be to ride the train forever. And since trains don’t go on forever, I got off at Jay Street to catch the F Coney Island Bound. That train seemed to go on forever. The sun began to set over the brownstones and cemeteries, and the clouds became feathers.

The air that blew in the car when the doors opened at each stop chilled me through my sweater. Darkness fell just before I arrived at the end of the line. I got off, my arms hugging my chest. I strode towards the beach. Every storefront was closed behind a metal gate. Streets were empty except a few tired people waiting for a bus.

I could smell the ocean. How much I missed the surge of salty energy that pulses through me when I stand on a beach in the moonlight. But something in me told me to stop walking, to turn around, to go back to the main street where the crowd of strangers shifted their weight on the opposite corner.

I walked quickly back, but I resisted the voice. The street stretched onward toward the Aquarium, I knew. I paced a block, passing under an overhang where a clownish voice told me to come on in and ride my ass off on the bumper cars. The lights were all out. The voice went on, laughing.

The next street was dark. A lone figure wavered back and forth along the sidewalk in the distance. For a quick second I resented being female. The beach would have to wait for another day.

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