For most of my life, I’ve had the notion that if I could just go away by myself for a little while, things would be better. I would lose the weight I need to lose. I would heal my wounds and get healthy. I would read the books I want to read, write the books I want to write. I would think big thinky thoughts and figure stuff out. Maybe I’d finally get a solid meditation practice going. An exercise regimen… I’ve heard great things about yoga. I’d find contentment and peace and, after a time, be ready to return to the world. It wouldn’t even have to be a long time. 3 months sounds good. Or a month even. A two-week writing retreat? I bet a long weekend could work wonders.

I don’t blame the people in my life for my circumstances. They don’t prevent me from reading or exercising or reflecting. I think my self-imposed obstacles stem more from the way I relate to people in my life than the people themselves. I tend to focus on their needs and interests. I become a part of their world, prioritize their priorities, listen to their music, learn their language, their passions, their geekdoms. It makes me a pretty kickass girlfriend/wife, if I say so myself. I’m kinda like Kamala, from Star Trek: TNG*, only nowhere near as hot as Famke Janssen.

On the flip side, I also grow accustomed to my people doing things for me that I could or should be able to do myself. Cooking, cleaning, car repair, home maintenance. They may do things differently than I would, but I get used to it. I grow laaaazy in those areas. I eventually seem to convince myself I can’t do those things and need them to be done for me.

When I got divorced, I had a micro-breakdown at the grocery store. I was in the produce section with my little basket, ready for some Independent Woman food shopping. My husband had done the grocery shopping decision-making. He did all the cooking, so it made sense. By that point, despite having been cooking my own meals since I was a latch-key kid at age 8 and having perfected numerous gourmet recipes for swank dinner parties I used to host pre-marriage, I was under the impression that the only thing I could be trusted to cook was instant mashed potatoes. My husband was happy enough to reinforce this misapprehension with what were meant as silly jests.

So I was in the grocery market and I started to mini-freak out because I wanted to buy some apples and there are, like, a million types of apples. Golden Delicious, Red Delicious, Granny Smith, Honeycrisp, Fuji, Gala, McIntosh, Mutsu, Jazz… I felt like Robin Williams in Moscow on the Hudson. The number of choices was dizzying and I realized a sad fact: I had no idea what kind of apples I like. [Spoiler alert: it’s Gala].

I spent a year traveling around the world a while back. It was amazing. It didn’t provide me the solitude I’d envisioned when I’d imagine “getting away” because I was traveling with my sweetheart, but I was freed from the daily concerns of gassing up the car, folding laundry, enduring small talk. I read so many books I’d always wanted to read on that trip, finding out part of what I’d wondered for so long: what makes a classic so… classic? I learned dozens of new things daily from my various environments and was, by and large, in love with the world.

Still, traveling with my then-boyfriend, there were things I didn’t do that I’d imagined I would. The big one was that I didn’t write daily. I wanted to write a journal entry each night. I wanted to memorialize my adventures and to organize the thousands of photos I was taking so they’d make sense later. But in the doing of the travel, I didn’t want to ignore my partner for an hour or hours every evening, monopolizing our single laptop and excluding him. Consequently, I have hundreds of memories that float, unattached to place, and places I’d love to revisit that sulk, name unremembered, in the smoky alleyways of my brain.

I did travel through Europe solo once for 6 months. I didn’t use the time that well. I was much, much younger than when I did my around-the-world. I was reeling from a painful breakup and I had almost no money whatsoever. At least I have the naiveté of youth to blame for embarking on such an ill-conceived trip. I had a Eurail pass, a borrowed backpack, a map of the continent and a woefully poor understanding of how much it costs to eat, sleep and explore Europe. Fortunately, I had three important things going for me: (1) a set of very low requirements for creature comforts like air conditioning, soft places to sleep and privacy; (2) a devil-may-care attitude; and (3) an older brother who lived in England and let me sleep on his floor on the numerous occasions I ran completely out of money, food, and ideas.

On this solo voyage, as on the dozens of similar treks I have made in my life, I failed to perform many of the myriad tasks I always imagine I will accomplish with the luxuries of freedom and time. I was far too concerned with the more basic of my Maslow’s needs to achieve self-actualization or have any earth-shaking epiphanies. I did journal constantly, though. I have scores of 5×8 inch books of bound paper, covered with longhand musings, descriptions of my trip, and small backpack-carryable souvenirs like business cards and brochures from places I enjoyed. Despite the insufficient funding and some bits of bad luck (like being pickpocketed of what little money I did have while in Athens), the trip was, nonetheless, fantastic.

As my dear Uncle Alan used to say, in his folksy Scottish brogue: “A bad day on the loch is better than a good day at work.”

I’d someday like to make a book from the experience – to transcribe those old journals and revisit the places I traveled as a destitute 20-something as a slightly less destitute 40-something. I wonder if, with the addition of a couple decades of time and a reasonable bit of cash, I might work my way higher up Maslow’s hierarchy and find some sacred truth or untapped potential in myself. I’m certainly interested in the view from the top of his pyramid.

Huh, maybe there’s that Kickstarter campaign idea I’ve been looking for. 😉

borrowed backpack

At The Parthenon, in Athens, with a friend I made on the train. Pre-theft.

At the Charles Bridge, Prague.

* Case in Point: My first husband was a HUGE Star Trek fan. Ask me anything. I’ve even been to a ton of conventions. My first marriage? Shaka, when the walls fell.

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