C'est Qui
Travel is supposed to broaden you, and it’s certainly doing that to me—at least around the waist and posterior—but it’s also, at the current point in our trip, constraining me in an odd way: that is, the typical components of my daily life that define me are being cast off or denied, so that I begin to wonder who I am and whether I’m even the same person I am when I’m at home.
This sounds heavier than I mean it; simply, I’m finding it slightly remarkable to notice what it’s like not to do the things that I do.
So, for instance, were I in Seattle, I’d get up early, do yoga, drink coffee, ride my bike, surf the internet, eat a vegetarian diet, pay a little bit of attention to the baseball season (more when Tim Lincecum pitches), have a beer or two, (and maybe on a Thursday night ride or weekend at home, partake of some pot); I might do a tiny bit of yardwork, read the local paper, cook some food, walk the dog; chances are good, I’d rent a movie and watch it with Jen and Mimi, but I’d still usually be asleep in my bed before midnight.
On our trip right now, though, none of the above really obtain. I’m rising from bed later and later each day; my yoga practice is cursory at best, if not non-existent; and while I did finally, on our last evening in Paris, get to try out the VeloLibre, that’s the only time I’ve been on two wheels in more than a week; I’ve tasted pork sausage and I dined on jumbo shrimp last night; I’m drinking wine almost exclusively (and my two internationally-smuggled joints remain untouched); the closest I’ve come to cooking is to butter a baguette, and I haven’t gone to sleep earlier than 1:30 in the morning since we’ve arrived in Europe.
Someone’s still writing 327 words, but who is he?
This sounds heavier than I mean it; simply, I’m finding it slightly remarkable to notice what it’s like not to do the things that I do.
So, for instance, were I in Seattle, I’d get up early, do yoga, drink coffee, ride my bike, surf the internet, eat a vegetarian diet, pay a little bit of attention to the baseball season (more when Tim Lincecum pitches), have a beer or two, (and maybe on a Thursday night ride or weekend at home, partake of some pot); I might do a tiny bit of yardwork, read the local paper, cook some food, walk the dog; chances are good, I’d rent a movie and watch it with Jen and Mimi, but I’d still usually be asleep in my bed before midnight.
On our trip right now, though, none of the above really obtain. I’m rising from bed later and later each day; my yoga practice is cursory at best, if not non-existent; and while I did finally, on our last evening in Paris, get to try out the VeloLibre, that’s the only time I’ve been on two wheels in more than a week; I’ve tasted pork sausage and I dined on jumbo shrimp last night; I’m drinking wine almost exclusively (and my two internationally-smuggled joints remain untouched); the closest I’ve come to cooking is to butter a baguette, and I haven’t gone to sleep earlier than 1:30 in the morning since we’ve arrived in Europe.
Someone’s still writing 327 words, but who is he?
posted by Professor Dave at 12:42 PM
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