Wanderlust.
We all have it inside of us. Sometimes its just the intense need to get out of the city and go for a drive. If only my wanderlust was as simple as that.
I’m sitting here on a cold and rainy autumn day. I just brewed up an Earl Grey lavender latte with coconut and honey to sip while relaxing by the wood stove in my little cabin at six thousand feet.
I’m sitting here, nestled up in my heated Sunbeam throw, surrounded by my purring cats and trying to read Steinbeck’s Travels with Charlie. This should be the perfect way to spend a rainy afternoon. Thousands of weekenders journey to our mountain town from the smoggy valley below to cherish the changing fall colors, the golden oaks and the auburn maple leaves. These people vacation here and live to have days like these.
I should have known as soon as I picked up Travels with Charlie, that this fifty something year old book would awaken my wanderlust as my eyes skimmed over Steinbeck’s words. Pretty soon I couldn’t even concentrate on the words in front of me. Instead I was day dreaming of the open road and mentally Map Questing and doing the math in my head; how many miles was it again to Big Sur?
Hours before this I sat in my grand parents cozy cabin catching up as the rain fell in our pine forest outside. My grandpa’s on oxygen full-time for his emphysema these days and his health has been terrible the last twenty years but he still sits at his hobby desk all day and builds model ships and antique roadster hobby cars. He just can’t sit still even though he can barely walk any more and I understand this. I’m the same way. Today Grandpa Mike was telling me how in the sixties their neighbors called their family the gypsies. He told me how on Friday night he would cash his check, load up the car with camping gear and drive from Boston to the Adirondack Mountains for as much camping as one could fit into a weekend; the more primitive the camping spot the better.
Maybe its this need to be as deep in the heart of nature as I can get that courses trough my veins. Even as the rain turns to snow outside my window and Travels with Charlie sits abandoned on the floor all I can think about is when can I go?
Where can I go is also, I guess the question and for a late fall getaway, the Central Coast of California is feeling quite tempting. As I abandon my book in order to research camp site pricing in the off-season, my mind is already on the deserted beaches of Morro Bay and my feet are already digging into sand and surf as I run for miles the week of Thanksgiving.
