The Trouble with Travel

Never fails that every time I travel to some distant spot, I fall in love with it and wonder why I am not living there. It has been that way all of my life. While I am not a big travel maven, I like seeing new places. Knowing that I fall in love with where ever I am, I have tried to keep my adventures to a minimum. No reason to invite dissatisfaction. My bud Bobby and I went to San Francisco for several days. That trip created such mental turmoil that I swore off venturing any farther than the local Wal-Mart for almost a year. I love San Francisco. And, I have absolutely no clue why I don’t pack up the truck and strike out today for that golden city on the bay. Just thinking about walking up and down those marvelous hills gives me pangs of anxiety. Why the hell am I here? I had similar adverse reactions after visiting Mexico, Costa Rica, the British Virgin Islands, practically any place in Texas, everywhere in the great Southwest, any place in the Rockies, the Smokies, the Ozarks, even Mobile and Montgomery. Now that I think about it, there are places I’ve visited I don’t want to live. I would not live in Detroit, Washington DC, Atlanta or Birmingham. All are failed cities. All of this is on my mind because I spent a week on the Gulf Coast last week. The whisper in my head asking why I was not living in Gulf Shores on Monday was a scream by Friday. And, predictably, I returned home and fell into a funk, wondering why I am still here. I went through the normal checklist of why I live in Welch. The farm. The Old Goat. Family and friends. St. Barnabas. The chickens. The dogs, cats and ducks. The peace and quiet. Ummm… If I left after lunch, I could toast a gorgeous sunset over Mobile Bay this afternoon with "that frozen concoction that helps me get through". The pull to change latitude is powerful. Ummm... Better get back on the tractor. The corn will not plant itself. Dammit.