Appalachia Year

My dad made the mistake of taking me to Germany with him when I was nine. I spent the first several days there with a sensory intake hangover, my little nine-year-old mental cogs whirring in cut time, flip-flip-flipping like a mechanical train schedule turning over. My worldview was being molded so quickly and intensely that it was visceral; it thudded in my gut at night when I tried to fall asleep in the sea of down comforters in Oma Anni's guest bedroom. The third day I was there I finally came to grasp that everything about my quotidian life, from the things I ate for breakfast to the things I learned in school, all of it was cultural, not some inflexible mandate of natural order. It had never occurred to me until then that I was part of any culture at all.

Since Dad took me to Meinerzhagen, the travel bug got its hooks in me deep and now it seems the only way to get me to stay still is with the promise of being on the go again soon.

I haven't been on a proper vacation since Nick and I stayed in a cabin in Asheville, North Carolina, whitewater rafting and eating every incarnation of soy protein the city had to offer. That was in early July - nearly eight months ago!

I guess what I'm saying is that I'm looking forward to seeing Mark and Michelle in L.A. so much that I'm even excited to wait in airports to get there.