We are betwixt and between right now. Almost ready to leave but still with things to finish. Wanting to hang out with old acquaintances, but feeling the separation coming. Wanting to meet new folks and socialize, but feeling separated by ennui and by our health regime – keto and not drinking – vs the typical fun of cruisers – tortillas and sweet drinks. We are tired of sitting still in one part of the world, it infects our energy with stodginess and turns eagerness for travel into snarling impatience. And COVID is still raging and we still have not managed to get vaccinated. And then the little things of life gang up on our un-resilient moods: the internet, never great, stumbles to a crawl for weeks now; the lady with the belligerent unleashed dogs seems always around the corner when I’m walking our dog; the showers never get beyond lukewarm; the few affectionate friends have already left; our sex life succumbs to lack of good sleep and hot noisy nights of other people drinking and dancing. The bed seems smaller than it did, packed with bodies. My formerly happy routines are turning dusty; walks seem tedious with familiarity, Spanish is impossibly dull, my novel-to-be lies mute.
We have been here for sixteen months. That seems a lifetime. I sometimes even think I might be getting tired of perfectly ripe avocados.
This camping lifestyle begins to pall, though the promise of travel keeps us looking ahead impatiently. I try to harness the excitement into plans and dates, but the impossibility of that effort turns my excitement to dust. “We hope to be there sometime” lacks the shininess I seek.
But nothing has actually changed. If I look with un-jaundiced eyes I still see the azure cloudless skies, the sea breezes still tangle in my hair. The people around us are travelers and campers, too, they too are seeking something more than the security of jobs and neighborhoods. We have much in common if I could rouse myself to ask.
My eyes are on the horizon though. It’s time to go.