Other than taking a break from the joyful impermanence of the nomadic lifestyle, the only good thing about my self-imposed travel ban is the opportunity to desperately long for the road again. The wait, the crave, the anticipation, the minute before a cartoon show begins and the wide-eyed child stares at the screen, hoping for that endless commercial to end.
How I miss that feeling on the train when I brush the curtain aside to watch the countryside disappear into one big green blur, that distinct smell of airports and how judging people silently makes time fly, and the comedic appeal of the voiceover enumerating the names of passengers who will later walk into a giant metal tube of embarrassment. And of course, nothing compares to the sheer thrill of wandering, whose unpredictability is its only predictable asset.
When I seem to go into another phase of suspended animation, I’m probably reliving one of these wonderful travel moments that made me wish my world would grind to a halt.