have bags, will travel

I travel not to go anywhere, but to go. I travel for travel's sake. The great affair is to move.
~ Robert Louis Stevenson

There's an old saying, something about how it's good to get away, but it's also good to get home again. It has never held any particular resonance for me. Don't get me wrong ~ I love my cozy Cali digs. And there's something to be said for sleeping in your own bed, with it's familiar sheets and sweet scent. Not to mention the very real comfort of knowing just what all those pillows and blankets have been up to lately. And with whom.

But I am always reluctant to unpack after a trip, no matter how long the duration or distant the place. And it's not just because I'm lazy, although that is my husband's theory. I never really want to admit that it's over. That it's time to stop wandering and playing and get back to the workaday world and it's routines and responsibilities. I like the sensation of moving, eyes on the horizon and mind just down the road. The truth is that, despite all efforts to the contrary Mama raised a rolling stone, and there's nowhere that I'd rather be than on my way. To somewhere I've never been before. Or that I've been in the past and remember well. Or remember ill, and have decided to give another chance. Just as long as I'm on my way.

And I can just as easily imagine myself living in Paris as Pasadena, or Venice as Ventura. And then hopping a train to Madrid, or a plane to hit the beach Down Under. Or California. I need not a mansion but a pied-a-terre, a pleasant place to hang my hat and get my mail. And join a gym. Because all that experience is very fattening. Very.

I heard someone say once that travel was for the unimaginative, and there may be some truth in that. It's true that I relish the thrill of the new, and that my limited imagination did not anticipate nor could have done justice to some of the experiences that I've had. I'd still rather do it than dream it. There'll be time enough for dreams. I'm more inclined to take the view expressed by Seneca, that travel and change of place impart new vigor to the mind.

I ponder that vigor of mind as I wander the house, barefoot and dozy, checking mail and watering plants. I listen to music and fiddle with photos. I watch from a distance as I avoid unpacking by blogging about how I am loathe to unpack. I am home.