Photo: Seth K. Hughes
There are two ways to look at the world when you’re a permanent traveler. (Yes, I know that in a sense we are all permanent travelers, through time and life, but I’m not going there until I hit an existentialist moment. Which should be any day now.)
- The road is my home. From Clorox-wiped gas station tilework to sweeping vistas of Colorado’s Royal Gorge, I am one with my surroundings. Motion feeds my soul. Every new sensation becomes a glimmering piece of the creative mosaic.
- F%&# the road. I can’t stop anywhere long enough to really absorb it. All that this constant travel does is isolate us from our friends. I’m either watching trees blur by or frantically typing on my laptop before my internet connection disappears again.
Studiola, I have to admit: You got me at a funny time. My husband, dog and I decided to live full-time in an Airstream this past February. If I’d been blogging here during those virgin months, you would have gotten something like a yogic bliss travel broadcast. Today finds me hanging out in a house, a real house, for the first time since May. We spent the summer in Alaska, by way of thousands of miles of driving. We just made it back to the Lower 48 yesterday.
“It was phenomenal” is what I’ll say once this travel hangover boils over. You know those stereotypes about people on the road being a little haggard, tweaked out on coffee, grouchy and soft around the middle? Yeah.
I’m also very honored to be here. I love that I can share these little stories with you.