There is an urban myth with some science to back it up which I always feared would lead to alcoholism if I ever believed it enough to try. On the morning after you’ve had more alcohol than wisdom might ever whisper encouragement of, it is best to pound a can of beer. A pilsner like Pabst or Bittburger would be best, never a 211 Steel Reserve or Mickeys Ice; just a primer to wake up one’s liver and to have it communicate to the brain that seeing straight really is preferable to having one’s breakfast spun all over the floor of the Denny’s bathroom.
I am composing this on Sunday morning. Three mornings ago I caught the 4:40 AM bus at Termini Station, Rome to take me to Fiumicino Airport for my flight home to Seattle. I didn’t think it was possible to be tired of travelling, not for me. I have always had a mocking tone to my sympathy for friends of mine who complain about having to fly Seattle to Washington D.C., D.C. to Austin, Austin to Philadelphia, Philadelphia to Seattle, all in the same week. “You poor dear,” my tone implies “how awful to have to see three great cities in one week. Is there no end to the sacrifices we must make for the sake of our careers?”
I can appreciate now the limited joy of travel. There is a comfort and rejuvenating effect to being in one, known, predictable place for some days. The shower is hot, the toilet works, the bed is yours, choose your own coffee mug. The scars in the sidewalks could never trip your well trained feet, the neighbors are reliably hostile, friendly or benign as you recall, you are in a world you helped to create and then chose to inhabit.
At home we buy into the madness and sanity every day, sacrificing excitement for control. Travel is the taking of sweets into the mouth, chewing, washing down with pear nectar; a moment to moment sour stomach making pint of ice cream, the lid discarded, the spoon becoming sticky down to the handle. Eventually you get tired of licking your fingers, can’t stay ahead of the warming treat, and begin looking for a place to set the spoon down. By the time I left Rome I was so very ready for a clean pair of underwear.
And now I am home.
albaniacalling 