hard, hard traveling man
I love to travel. I have restless blood in my veins. It doesn't matter where I'm going, so long as it's new. No, it doesn't have to be new, provided it isn't where I've been stuck. I'll find something compelling about any place—can't say the same about people.
I grew from fetus to adulthood about five miles outside of Philly. Most of the kids around me had never been to New York, which is less than a hundred miles away. A few of them had never even braved the five-mile trek into Philly. I encounter the same maddening phenomenon here in Oregon—most adults I talk to have visited Seattle once or twice, and they might have made it to Idaho or California to see a relative a long time ago. It astonishes me how complacent the commoners are with seeing the SAME THINGS over and over and over and over again. Why not crawl into the casket already?
My toes have stepped down in forty-eight states and fourteen countries, and it isn't enough. Still have to see Hawaii and Rhode Island and Asia and Africa and South America and maybe the North and South Poles. I'd be happy waking up in a new city every morning for the rest of my life.
Part of it, I'm sure, is that I never felt at home anywhere. Maybe the travelphobes find a warm sugary womb amid kith and kin. Not me. I'm a drifter. When things get bad, there's always a road out of town.
