Necessities and Itineraries

Maybe it's the change in the weather that is inspiring my restless dreams; shifting spring breezes – infused with the scents of ocean salt, of forest dirt warming beneath dried pine nettles, and of newly-unfurled, white magnolias – spill over the mountains into our already parched valley. While the brown crumpled bodies of blossoms scattered in our driveway crunch beneath my feet, the wind whispers that there are places still green and living. Or maybe it's the photographs of multicolored paper lanterns strung from the courtyard rafters in a Korean town that are creating this tug of longing in my chest. The photos were posted by a high school friend, who is chasing his dreams of making music while teaching English on the side. In one snapshot, his pant legs are rolled up as he reclines on ancient stone steps and dips his toes into the languidly flowing foreign river. His cheeks are unshaven and his jeans are torn. His care-free smile invites me out to explore Asian countrysides.

It's been four years since I've been out of the country. While walking along Pacific Beach with my brother Eric after his birthday dinner, we spotted the Banana Bungalow, a lurid yellow building with a wooden porch facing the ocean. Eric wrinkled his nose at the sight of laundry thrown casually to dry over the mismatched beach chairs and at the cracks in the dilapidated building, losing its battle to withstand the waves of backpacking youth with their six-packs of cheap beer. Eric doesn't do hostels, partly because of the horror flick and partly because of his love for luxury. He is the kind of guy who can capitalize on his good-looks, fashion sense, and well-connected friends to crash producers' parties in Hollywood and obtain entrance to the elite clubs in Vegas. Unlike him, I stared wistfully at the decaying hostel; smiling at the memory of the place in Paris with the plastic-lined, wall-less stairwell and the tiny kitchen in Madrid where everyone passed around three coffee mugs and one jar of Nutella for breakfast. I like a little grunge, a little adventure, a little uncertainty when I travel. Luxury seems uniform to me regardless of the location. It's on the streets where you realize what makes a culture and a city unique.


It seems like everyone I know is off on a trip to New York or Florida. Each week, friends who are luck enough to live and work abroad upload albums of day trip images. I flick through the photos and think about how much I'd like to load up the car and leave for at least a week, with grander plans pending. Then, the reasons to stay put come flooding in on my one-car parade. First, like nearly everyone in this economic climate, Paul and I have no money to spare. Although, we had even less when we traveled to over ten cities in Europe. Hostels, friend's couches, street food, and an Oyster card will get you to a lot of places if you are willing to share a room with fifteen strangers and can entertain yourself on twenty euros a day. Besides, I've learned the “having no money” is a state of mind that never changes, even when bank statements do. Second, there are to-do lists to be honored. I'm tempted to wait for the mythical free space of time in our schedules that is as elusive as the end of the rainbow. There is nothing like sleeping in a new bed or waking up in a tent to cure the illusions of these self-imposed limitations.

Last night, I dreamed that a friend appeared in my living room and invited me to take a ride on this grungy towel, the kind that looks like it has been retired to car and pet drying status. In the way I can only do in dreams, I remember the secret of flying. It's not effortless, but I know how to hold my body and catch the wind just right. Like learning to ride a bike, I gain this perfect, indescribable balance, which can only come from experience, and I'm suddenly sailing on this ratty, old towel. We packed a few sack lunches (strange how dreams mix the practical and the nonsensical without discrimination) and took a trip across the country in a montage of images, which owed partial credit to the Disney film, Aladdin. I awoke to the disappointing realization that I don't know how to make towels fly. Yet, I retained the conviction that I should be able to hop in a vehicle and defy the boundaries of my normal routines.

With flying towels out of the running, I still must decide on a vehicle and a destination. Trains are wrapped in a certain amount of allure, the romantic remnants of steam billowing around them in an old-fashion station. My interest in this antiquated form of transportation is probably left over from my dad's train obsession phase. He spent years transforming a board of wood in a model town, complete with interconnected tracks, buildings airbrushed with realistic rust, and tiny decals painstakingly applied to miniature boxcar sides. Recorded train sounds clanged from his upstair bedroom; rattling the walls and creating the effect of a freight train crashing across the landing with its whistle blaring. We took entire vacations planned around California train museums (trust me, there are more of them then you would imagine). Still, train vacations haven't lost their nostalgic romance for me. A fact I will never reveal to my father because I have to stand by the fits of utter disgust I threw as a middle schooler dragged on those trips. I would hate for him to know I inherited a portion of his interest. Besides, I still maintain that there is a difference between a trip planned by train and a trip planned around trains.

There is never a right time to travel. There will always be tasks to complete at work, necessities to save for (I'm not sure my shaky old Buick is going to make it much longer), or unmissable social obligations. Yet, roving is a not a luxury. Its a nomadic need. When it says go, I have to find a tent or a car or a cheap bed and breakfast. It's saying go. There's no time to book a seat on a train. The open California highways undulating through the deserts and winding along the coasts are calling.

So, its time to make calls to a few friends and load up our trusty RAV4. We'll have to roll down the windows because the air conditioning and the engine refuse to function at the same time. Maybe, we will stop in Sacramento to visit with my grandfather. His illness has made him too weak to read any of the books crammed up to the ceiling in his study. His fingers are too blistered to strum his guitar or carve canoes out of scrap wood in his garage. I'd like to sit and talk with him in the one-on-one way I've always been too afraid to arrange because he is so damn smart it scares me.

Then, on to San Fransisco to drop in on Paul's parents and sleep on an air mattress in their kitchen. Their studio is too small to provide any other floor space. But who cares where you sleep when you are in the hilly city that inspired Amy Tan and when there are art-filled allies to explore.

After that, it's on to Portland to return the visit we have owed to our college friends, Patrick and Brycie, for so long. Books, coffee, indie music, and catching up hardly costs a thing. All we need to pack are a few pairs of jeans (I'm notorious for making one pair last a week or more), t-shirts, a few changes of underwear, and a handful of tea-tree-oil infused toiletries. Of course, we will also load up our laptops, a journal for me, and camera equipment for Paul. These are the necessities: each other, the tools of our trades, and a few familiar faces along the way. Creaky couches and late night talks are all the luxury we need. No free time, extra money, or flying towels necessary.