urge for going.

I'm not much of a traveler. Don't get me wrong: I love going places. I love exploring uncharted waters (both literal and physical). I love scaring myself, getting out of my comfort zone. My problem, however, is that I never know that I love these things till I'm done doing them. It's the return that I jones for, the coming home, the relief of getting back, of telling the story of the journey. That's the part I love.

But I'm not much of a traveler. When I'm away, I'd rather stay with friends than in a hostel. I'd rather land in one place for a couple of weeks and just be there, settle in, put down whatever spindly roots I can in the short time I have there. This is why I am also an excellent companion on road trips: I plant myself in the car. Ten years ago or so, my then-boyfriend and I drove out to the East Coast together, and we made my parents' little red Civic our home on the open highway. We spread out like goldfish who grow to the size of their bowl; at the end of two weeks the car was littered with lighters, CDs, lists of our desert island albums (and oh my lord how we fought over which CDs to bring for the road in those crowded days before portable music libraries), half-eaten Cadbury bars. We settled in as we headed out. It's a nice combination.

All of which is to say, I'm about to embark on my favourite kind of journey--a trip to a home away from home. On Sunday I'll fly to Vancouver, the city that saw me through some of the weirdest, hardest years of my life, the city I fell in love with everytime I looked out the window of my apartment on Arbutus and saw those giant mountains, the city I debated losing myself in when my little life Back East fell apart. My Best West Coast Friend Tara's picking me up at the airport. I think it'll be the first time anyone's ever met me at that airport. When I lived there, and would fly back in there, it was always just me, alone at the taxi stand. It's a good feeling, the safety that someone's going to be there when you arrive.

But first, I am, as the old song says, Alberta Bound. Tonight I fly to Calgary, where my parents will collect me. It's a comfort to know your family's already waiting for you somewhere.



Last night I packed my carry-on bag. There's something really reassuring about packing a proper carry-on. A tiny friend of mine who's flying on a plane for the first time pretty soon was recently telling my mother about what she's putting in her carry-on; her list includes a Band-Aid and Chapstick. My list included oregano oil, a book by Kate Atkinson, mixed nuts, Chapstick (the kid's got a good point), an iPod newly stocked with the kind of soulful folk rock I love, and The New Yorker. Following my mother's advice I always put a pair of underpants in my carry-on too, just in case. I like knowing I have everything I need right under the seat in front of me. It makes me realize how little it actually takes to find true contentment. A little music, a few words, an open sky. A mini bottle of Gallo Brothers Merlot on the seat-back tray table doesn't hurt either. It's a lucky life.



See y'all in a week or two.