It's a bizarre concept, travel. A year ago I wanted to flee NH and all my bad memories rooted there and in MA. I wanted to escape America and its recession. I arrived in Ireland with the same memories, swimming in a worse recession. I'm still glad that I traveled, but it was a drastically different experience than I anticipated. And now that I'm full of distance and poverty-and-time hewn wisdom I discover that the adventure I most want to embark on this moment is home, to NH, where the snow, my friends, my complicated family, my good and bad memories, and my blind black pug wait for me. I really want to go back for a few weeks for the winter holidays, and if fate and family intervene like they suggest they will, maybe my want will materialize. I am so excited just thinking about travelling to Portsmouth, Boston, and all the places I loved or that I just knew. I remember being in those places years ago, chewing on pens in my favorite cafes with an open notebook and skinny chai lattes, wishing to be away.
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