I always think I'm going to write home when we travel. To whom exactly, I do not know. I think how I'll say that sometimes travel is boring. How it's just living. Procuring food at grocery stores, laundry, stomach bugs and school work. Life.
Other times, children dance through a fine mist in the evening shadows. Morning mist wears off and mountains appear on the return hike from the grocery store. I meet a stranger who offers comfort and wisdom. I watch a stranger cry at the sight of dolphins and wonder at the source of her tears. My own fount threatens to pool.
I tell my daughter our trips are not necessarily meant to entertain. She struggles with this. Travel must have a definitive purpose in her preferred world. Vacation, family, work. There must be a destination and goal.
Sometimes, I tell her, one travels not to vacation, not to run away or to fulfill a checklist. One travels for the privilege of living a day to day life in another setting. Travel humbles.
The uncomfortable and the unfamiliar call, seducing yet another innocent.
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