Traveling full time means scattering myself

First drafted on May 2nd while entering Connecticut, edited May 8th in Portland, polished and published later.

Leaving New York City is melancholy even though we’re the ones making the decision. How much falafel can I consume in a five-day period, anyway? We’re ready to move on — Maine beckons, the rocky coast stands tall, I remember there are hiking trails where we can actually work our calf muscles — yet I’m reluctant to drive away. My eyes linger on the tall buildings I never expected to love. Later we’ll look at real estate again, “just for kicks”, and fantasize about a future in a tiny studio overlooking some crowded street. It might happen. I bet we’d fit.

When we get to Portland, I’ll feel at home along the water. We’ll eat more incredible food. I’ll wave at toddlers in strollers wearing too-big beanies against the morning chill then running barefoot six hours later in the sun. We will daydream about this future, too — we will scan through apartments, casually check our budget spreadsheet, wonder aloud what it would be like to go on this same jog every morning. How long until we got sick of the repetition? Would we? Do you see that sailboat pushing through the fog?

At our next dispersed campsite I will recall that Scout and I are meant to be forest creatures. She will pounce like a fox, I will build a campfire, Sean will make mochas bearing too much (no such thing) homemade whipped cream. I will nap in the dappled sunlight with bed doors thrown open — Scout will sprawl on her side, dirt caking her muzzle, reluctantly let us check her for ticks when she comes back inside. I’ll take photos of my morning coffee view and close my eyes and think we could do this forever. Me and my favorite creatures. How somewhere “nowhere” feels today.

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I think traveling full time means leaving parts of myself all over the country. Scattering them to the wind, the road, the subway. I give pieces to new cities, offer bites to strangers in coffee shops, bury thoughts on public land, tuck them beneath park benches. I leave drips of tahini on New York sidewalks and footprints on Outer Banks sand and tiny heartstrings everywhere Sean has held my hand.

I write mediocre poems parked on narrow side roads, read aloud on uneven grass, perform physical therapy exercises wherever there’s room. Scout plays tug-of-war on Manhattan streets and deserted beaches, at sunrise and sunset, pees on the sidewalk when she has to, rolls in the earth whenever she can.

We move almost constantly — there’s so much else to see — yet rarely feel unsettled.

Every city we visit becomes ours if we stay there long enough (and most of the time “long enough” only means a few days). Is that greedy? Are we delusional? Or is home wherever Sean squinty-grins and our cattle dog presses her nose to my skin?

The terrain may be novel, but the comfort of our familiarity — note the root of that word — lets us jump without hesitation.

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So I tuck a jug of our own urine in a tote bag, hoping to be discreet, and carefully empty it in a public portapotty. This doesn’t bother me. I put thick covers on our windows before bed so the streetlights can’t keep us awake, just like drawing curtains in a “real” house — and in the morning we make coffee, kettle atop the stove, cream poured from the fridge. We have everything we need and then some. So much then some.

Sometimes I cry, longing for a hot bath, and when I stretch my arms above my head at night they hit the wall. Force my feet against the other side. Remind me I am confined.

But I feel free. I get to choose these challenges. On neighboring days I am a city girl and a dirtbag adventurer and a smalltown door holder. All of these are right.