I’ve moved almost once a year for the last ten years. Mostly I’ve been back and forth between Texas and Oxford, but I’ve also lived in France and various other places in-between. Every time I move I’m always certain that it’s for the last time, but I haven’t stopped yet. I blame that wandering impulse on my mother using her maternity leave to travel with me in tow. Just two weeks old, I slept in drawers from Canada to Colorado.
This blog is a testament to many exquisite experiences and happy moments. But then sometimes I get those blues common to the long-term traveller. I call them the Peripatetic Blues, and they often come on during overcast days or sleepless nights, when you’ve been traveling alone or away from home just a little too long, when you feel the distance between yourself and those people and places you love too keenly. I’ve gone nine months without seeing my family, years without seeing my closest friends, and have spent months at a time 5,000 miles away from my husband. I’ve missed births, deaths, and just about every ceremony and rite of passage common to the American youth. I’ve lived most of the last decade out of two suitcases (plus one carryon). On balance, considered in times of greater fortitude and self-reliance, the blues are a small price to pay for the privilege of boundless wandering. And as with all blues, these peripatetic ones pass in time. The pleasures of home are only rendered more acute with every journey elsewhere.