26 june 2005

I woke up warm and content this morning on my top bunk and I realized I was dreaming that I was leaning on Ian, tall Ian the geologist with the ponytail and beard and affinity for heavy metal. And then I was sad to have woken up. And the wholeness of the comfort of this dream was that I felt protected. My dreams are not so subtle in times like these. I am standing here at the edge of Amsterdam, where after six months I have finally gotten my geographic and linguistic and social bearings, and I am diving off into some great Balkan chaos where I will have to deal with erratic buses and messy history and not being able to ask for a spoon.

Once I jumped out of an airplane and the part in the plane gaining altitude was the worst part, the part full of anxiety, and the falling was euphoric. This is travel to me. It’s not something I look forward to; it’s something I dread, but the pull of the fall is enough to make me scheme and scrimp my life around it.

I am blessed with a non-addictive physiology, I can drink a coffee or smoke a cigarette once a week or once a month and it’s all the same to me, no headaches or crankiness or achy need, so beyond sex and chocolate and the company of certain people the only craving that feels more like reality than a whim to me is travel, and it’s ruined my resume and my credit rating and the majority of my romantic relationships, but I’m pretty sure it’s still better than heroin.