Last night I dreamt I was a young girl in school. A land bridge had recently been discovered in the northeast United States, leading to South America. I have a few clues as to why my brain decided to create this crazy premise: watching FIFA yesterday on Telemundo and wondering why team Wales was called Gales, having a Welsh friend in Nova Scotia, thinking about retirement destinations a lot, seeing a book of maps as I was Christmas shopping, and quite frankly, having unfulfilled wanderlust.
A classmate was chosen to take the land bridge and visit some countries with Anthony Bourdain as a guide. (I miss a world without this man). I wasn’t chosen, wanderlust still unfulfilled, but I did watch the tourists almost as if I was a camera lens. No Parts Unknown narration, sadly. I suppose that magic happens in post production.
There was food, and the interiors of restaurants, and the views outside of large paned windows. The scenery and flavors were there, though oddly, or maybe not oddly, no longer subtropical. My classmate needed frequent naps. The schedule seemed grueling.
I asked her, when she returned, how many days was the trip? Seven. How many countries did she visit? Five. I was no longer envious. I preferred leisurely trips, to really soak up my new surroundings, to have time to and leisure to notice things, rather than be shown. And yet how could I possibly manage a trip like that by myself at my young age, all alone. It seemed dangerous.
Looking back at the dream, this is the only thing that rings false. I wasn’t afraid of anything at that age. Those were the doubts of my older, dreaming self.
Who’s right?
