I Am a Wanderlust Queen

Dear Aster,

What brings me joy, you ask? It’s ironic that this week, of all weeks, I get to write about things that bring me joy. You see, I am an incredible dumbass, who, despite all of my meticulousness and attention to detail in most things in life, managed to somehow buy only one plane ticket for me and my beloved to go to Seattle on a 4-day getaway this weekend. We have been looking forward to this trip for months. We have been researching and getting excited. We had a horseback riding excursion booked. We haven’t been out on a trip for just us in a long time, and we badly needed this. Both of us. Life has been fucking hard, in so many ways, and this was supposed to be a ray of fucking sunshine. And lo and behold, there we are, at five fucking AM on a Saturday, trying to check into our flight, realizing that there is only one ticket where there should be two. So here we are now, trying to turn an awesome vacation into a tolerable staycation. And I am beyond pissed at myself, and consequently the world.

Anyhooms. What brings me joy? Satisfying my wanderlust. That’s it. That has always been it. In big ways, in small ways, in tiny ways. Anything that gets me a new experience, or a new perspective, a new taste, a new sight, a new smell. We are children of immigration, and migration and movement is in our blood. We cannot stay in one apartment for more than two years without getting itchy, and we are constantly on the lookout for new places to move to or visit. Our favorite days are days when we get to gallivant. Anywhere. Preferably new. We love walking and we love exploring new places, meeting new people, etc.

I know this must sound cliche — who doesn’t like to travel, right? But it’s so much more than that. It’s not just that I love to travel. I just love adventure and newness. This is partially why I am a foodie. Every time I cook something new, especially if I make it up as a go, from scratch — I feel like I am going on an adventure. Every time I discover a new food place, I discover a new world, new culture, new people, new tastes. Even if I don’t like something, it is novel and fresh and interesting.

This is probably partially why I loved being a teacher so much. In the teaching world, no two days are alike. It is a constant rollercoaster, often without seatbelts or guardrails, and you just have to hold on for dear life to survive. And I loved that. That brought me joy because I had an unlimited supply of new challenges and excitements.

The best five months of my life, to this day, are my student teaching days, when I lived in Rome, completely submerged into a different country’s culture, customs, and language — in addition to fully dipping into the world of teaching for the first time. The traditional draws of travel were all, of course, there: the sights, the day trips, the history, the cobblestone, etc. And I adored all of that, but at the heart of it all was the feeling that I truly did not know what the next day would bring, and there was a constant guarantee of freshness. (Most people would absolutely hate the idea of getting off a bus in rural Italy and realizing that the hostel shuttle that promised to pick you up is nowhere to be seen, and there is no phone number you can call, nor a phone to use. And yet, “The Time I Almost Slept In a Field in Bologna” is still one of my favorite stories.)

It’s contradictory, isn’t it — ‘the guarantee of freshness’? It’s like I satisfy my need for stability and comfort through unpredictability and adventure. It doesn’t really make sense, but it feels right. I am most at home when I am actually not. I feel most settled and at peace, when there is chaos around me, and I am constantly moving. After a true adventure, like this Seattle trip should have been, I would welcome a few months of quiet at home because that would then feel different and new.

It’s dangerous, this mentality of mine. When times get dark, it actually feels very similar to the scary feelings I used to harbor when I was a lot younger — the ones that made me want to just disappear and not exist. (Dear reader, if you relate to this sentiment in any way, please know that help is always close by, and seeking it is the bravest thing you can do.) I no longer have those sentiments, and the scars they left have mostly healed, but when times get dark, I still have the impulsive urges to go away. They don’t manifest the way they used to, but instead, they make me want to run away, get off the grid, and never be seen or heard from again. Grab nothing but my cat, become a new person, assume a new identity, move to a little-known country, and live in anonymity. Sleep on beaches. Feed elephants. Join communes. Start a cult. Swim with the sharks. Whatever.

Anyhooms, sorry for getting us all down for a bit there. This post is supposed to be about joy. So, before I go, I just want to express how grateful I am. You see, I am a person that is best described as having a шило в заднице. (Our English-speaking friends: this is a priceless Russian expression, referring to someone who just can’t sit still. Exact translation: an awl in the ass. Take it as you will.) So, the шило in my culo will always be there, no matter what I do. And I am so grateful to have people in my life to balance me out, to make me (somewhat) want to settle, to help me be okay with pausing and breathing every now and then. Because we all need to breathe. You are one of those people. So is the lovely human at my side. Thank you for tempering my wanderlust before it takes me to the moon. You are my anchors, and I am hopelessly adrift without you.

Love,

Your Orchid

P.S. According to “The Wedding Date,” places have memories. What is one place that holds memories for you? Preferably positive, but do you. What memories does it hold? Would you like to come back to it? What does this place feel like to you?

[Currently listening to Billy Joel’s Vienna, cuz lord knows this crazy child needs to slow down.]