As I recover and reflect on my weekend, I continue to be surprised by the reactions I get when I tell people I live in Austin. Even people who have never been gasp and exclaim how lucky we are.
It reminds me of a blog post I wrote a few months ago on my terrible case of Wanderlust. I still have it. I was desperately in need of this weekend's getaway, but coming home to Austin makes recovery so much easier.
Here is the original post from Flattlands Blog:
It happened again recently when walking the streets of San Francisco during a visit with an old friend. I dreamed of my life in San Francisco, walking to the coffee shop and boutiques just blocks from my house. Stopping in for a juice at the trendiest new juice bar on my way to my fast-paced job with a cutting-edge company.
I looked at the row houses lining the hilly streets and wondered why I didn’t choose this place back before I grew some roots and started a family.
Then I remembered, just a month ago I had the same thought while walking along the beach in San Diego. I thought, I should have moved to a tiny beach shack right after college. I would have lived in flip-flops and let the sun bleach out my hair while not really caring about the type of job I had as long as I could spend my free days at the beach.
This year I’ve been lucky to travel to a different city and state almost every month for work and fun. But, it wasn’t until the last trip that I realized that every time I go, I spend part of my time imagining what could have been.
In Colorado, I lived to ski. With the wind-blown, chapped face to prove that I worked in this mountain town only to make enough to pay for lift tickets.
In West Texas I gave up my big city life to live a slower-paced, small town existence. Living for the beauty of the harsh scenery and serenity around me, I spent my days slower and quieter, getting to know all the quirky locals and welcoming the occasional tourist.
In Nicaragua, I embraced the expat lifestyle, finding a way to spend days surfing and releasing sea turtles back into the ocean and worrying about mañana, mañana.
In Maine my slow paced life revolved around opening a yarn shop and teaching knitting to the local kids. I make friends with the antique shop owner who also sells fresh blueberries in the summer. We talk about books and share lobster recipes.
I could spin my tales to myself and almost ruin a return trip home by wishing I lived somewhere else and second-guessing the choices I made. I come home and immediately look at the calendar to plan my next trip. It’s wanderlust in the worst way.
But, this is why we travelers do it. We go to get out of our lives, if only for a few days. Taste new foods, see new faces and imagine, “what if?” We dream and explore, then return to our warm homes, familiar places and true loves. We appreciate what’s home while dreaming of the next trip.
And, while walking down the hill that foggy San Francisco morning that I remembered the conversations I had with locals in nearly every destination I’ve been to this year:
“You live in Austin? Ahhhh, man what a great town. It’s on my list. I wish I could live there.”
