Travel

The other day, I was repacking some personal items and came across an old green woolen blanket. It had always been in my pack when I was on the road. If I were stuck out without shelter, I’d strike out into the woods. Out came the tarp and blankets. In a few minutes, I had an improvised shelter. In those days, I had no cash to pay for a room in a hotel or motel. It was either that or kept on hitching. 

Looking like I did and broke, I could not precisely impersonate a person of fiscal status or means. So it was a tiny fire, a can of beans, and a cold camp. 

While holding the blanket and recalling the “good old days,” my mind briefly considered what it might be like to hit the road again. Take off on a “frolicking detour” like my friends and I used to. A trip, perhaps, to warmer climes? After all, December in New England has a certain charm, but warmth is not one. 

I drew a blank on places I’d wish to visit in the American South. Places in the Caribbean called to me. After over fifty years, they’ve surely forgotten my youth’s excesses.

 While a trip to old haunts is always fun, I’m more likely to find pleasure, a bit of zest, and interest in someplace new. Seeing the different architecture and museums and trying local food is fun. 

But the key is to stay long enough to set down some shallow roots, meet people, form relationships, and develop affection for the place. This way, you’ve taken some of it when you move on or return home. It was part of the poignancy of being on the road: discovery, regret at leaving and abiding memories of people and places.