So many things left unseen, undone, unexperienced. That’s how vacations go, isn’t it? The energy required to see all the sights, go to all the places on the list of “must sees,” and explore all the places heretofore unseen is beyond a human’s capacity to do it all. Yet we try.
I wrote recently that I’d like to see the city up close by living there (in New York) for a period. I still would like to do that. But one does that only if one is independently wealthy, is young and bursting with energy, or if one sells everything invests in experiences. None of those things describe us.
Writers (and I consider myself to be one, finally) have the capacity to indulge their fantasies by writing about them. While others can dream, writers can experience—albeit only in their minds—the world in ways most can’t. Writers can assemble dreams, experiences, and the words describing the experiences of others into actual inner worlds through which they meander at their own pace and with their own agendas.
That’s all well and good, but I want the real thing. I lust not so much for travel, but for the experiences that are incidental to travel.
During our time here in New York, I’ve been writing a travelogue of our experiences; I’ll post it sometime after we get back home and I’ve had an opportunity to review, edit. and accessorize it with photos I’ve taken during our trip. And I’ll ponder those experiences we had, and those I wanted to have but didn’t, and I’ll plan to immerse myself in writing about ideas and themes that merit thought.
