(You’ll enjoy this post more if you read it while listening to Andrew Petersen’s song, World Traveler, which you can find here.)
I live in a family of world travelers. This hit me yesterday, as my husband emailed from Madrid, and my daughter sent me forms to fill out for her junior year abroad. Their passports are well-used, those two. Our second daughter will join the globetrotters club this spring as she visits France with a group from school.
And here I am, sending postcards from the Midwest.
Well, somebody needs to keep the home fires burning. When my people come home from their travels, they want me there to kiss them hello and serve chicken noodle soup for dinner. And I really do love my home in the Heartland. It isn’t just a hook-y tag line for my blog. I like taking all the quaint little day trips I write about.
My husband started his travels ten years ago, at the height of the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. He had a skill set they needed, so he spent three months each in those lovely tourist havens. After that came shorter stints in several other exotic locales, and now a more mainstream stop in Spain.
Betsy, our oldest, went to Europe on a school trip, then to Panama with a church group, so she isn’t too worried about living in England next year. I’m dreading her absence. But I’m the one who wanted her to “know how big the world is,” so it seems mean-spirited to complain.
Someday it will be my turn. When the children are grown and our pace slows down, I’ll visit all the places I’ve dreamed of. I’ll take an authors’ tour of England, and walk in the footsteps of Jane Austen, Elizabeth Gaskell and the Bronte sisters. Oh, and James Herriot. And Charles Dickens and Agatha Christie. Which reminds me of Dick Francis, and of course P.G. Wodehouse…..
Wait. What was I talking about?
Oh, that’s right. Travel. Someday I’ll eat baguettes and cheese in Paris, and whatever they put in front of me in Tuscany. I’ll visit walled cities and Roman aqueducts and soaring Gothic cathedrals. My goodness, perhaps I’ll even see the Alhambra.
Someday. Just now I’m a bit busy making certain my family knows I’m here. No matter what they think, they aren’t ready to come home and find me gone.
Do you doubt my “someday” will ever come? Well then, I have a book to sell you. Once upon a time, it was a “someday,” too.