I walk. Either to school or to the bathroom or to the end of the line. I drive. Whether it’s to work, to the supermarket or to the hospital. I sit. In front of the television, in front of the computer, in front of the world.
Passports should be dilapidated and dog-eared. Tan lines should be erratic and the hat you’re wearing should announce where you’ve been or where you’re about to go.
I go to work and I forget. I forget there’s a magnificent and mysterious world on the other side of a boarding pass. It now occurs to me that what makes travel “so hard to do” is making the decision to do it.
I love the taste of American convenience and a full refrigerator, a clean bathtub and wide, open, paved streets. Appreciation for the choices, fortune and beauty of America is never as full-blooded until I return home from somewhere far away.