In a jetlagged haze, sitting on the runway for two hours at JFK yesterday, I gave a mental salute to my friend Amy. She'd taken off from the Philly airport earlier in the afternoon for her Next Big Move: Buenos Aires.
I remembered how it felt lifting off from Boston to Paris, about this same time three years ago. Preparing for it is irrelevant, no matter how well or how much you think you have. The magnitude only hits when you're in the plane: a cocktail of ecstasy and fear, served neat.
I remembered that I meant to write this post two weeks ago, when Amy and Catherine and I had dinner in the Mission. These two are my travel ladies, the ones who get it.
They met years ago just after Catherine returned from her round-the-world trip, while Amy was planning hers. I worked with Amy at Avalon, where we put in long cubicle hours while patiently plotting international moves. Catherine and I first joined forces in Paris, when she passed through my apartment for an all-too-brief cheese coma on her way to Italy.
When we met this time, Catherine had flown in the night before from Jazzfest in New Orleans. I was recovering from Kyoto and Beijing, gearing up for New York. Amy was passing through for goodbyes in Maine, Oregon, and California while packing for Argentina.
Unquestionably, we are women on the move. Nostalgic for what's passed, giddy for what's coming up.
We counted countries—30 between us so far, with only four overlaps—and were sorely disappointed at the total. So much left to do!
Wanderlust and wine go well together, even better with friends who already have more stories than we could tell each other in a lifetime. And it's not like we're getting close to done.
Hey Amy, the next story is all yours. Here's to safe travels, gentle transitions, and the unmatchable high of not knowing what happens next—except that we'll be coming to visit.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment