As I drive to work, I keep glancing at the sky, perhaps more than is wise. The sunrise is making orange sorbet with a touch of lemon meringue out of the clouds, as they sit in a china bowl of soft blue.
In contrast, simple white clouds are stretched like cotton balls into thin, long lines that are pointing me, taunting me to follow them. A plane appears in the distance, moving closer and closer. I imagine myself sitting in one of the seats. It’s heading west, perhaps to Colorado or San Francisco.
If the plane in the sky was heading east, I would imagine myself heading to New York to visit my son for a few days, before continuing to London. I’d tour the UK before jigging my way on to Ireland, a dream trip that I’ve fantasized about for fifteen years — collecting brochures, checking the cost of flights, and reading travel articles on the best places to visit.
But it’s not just flight that I think about. I drive by RV dealers and scan the lot for Airstreams. I sometimes even stop in and run my hands over their sleek exterior. I sit down in the front area and look out the windows, imagining myself drinking a cup of coffee and taking in the sight of a glistening lake or mountain range.
I imagine myself into an Airstream vagabond gypsy. I’d need to store or get rid of almost everything I own. Rather than frightening me, I feel a smile playing on my face at the thought. But I do wonder about where I could put my Mac and do my writing and how the two dogs and cat would fare. And what about the chickens? And I wouldn’t be able to have a garden, unless I settled somewhere long enough to do container gardening or farm a community plot.
If only I could live in two worlds, an apartment dwelling surrounding by bike paths and things to do here in Minnesota during the summer and then hit the road when things turned cold. In my head, I am pulling my fantasy Airstream from one side of the country to the other, wherever my whimsy takes me and the truck is willing and able to go.
I live in these travel dreams and wonder, since I never actually go to any of these places and flying makes me a nervous wreck (not the fear of flying, just the preparation for it), do I really want to travel or is it more that I just want to get away?
And if it’s just that I want to get away, what is it I want to get away from? What immediately pops into my head is my job, which really translates into wanting to get away from constant demands on my time. To be able to flow a bit. I want to be somewhere and not feel the pull of needing to be somewhere else or to be someone that I’m not.