Been traveling a lot lately. Bcon in Indy last weekend. Ocala, Florida for BigHugeCo this weekend. It used to be I loved to travel. But then where did I go?
Toronto. New York. Philadelphia. San Francisco. Chicago. Places I not only love to visit, but places where I know people.
Indianapolis was great. It’s only 90 minutes away, so I drove. It was great to see people I hadn’t seen in years and reconnect with the writing community. This week, I’m in Florida, which, for an Ohioan, is not a bad place to be in late October. However, I’m not traveling alone, so no Sunday afternoon jaunt down to Orlando or Tampa to check out the sights. No trip to the Kennedy Space Center.
Also, it’s been a while since I’ve traveled heavily. Some things had changed.
- My coworker, who’s about my age, is single and wanted to close a bar. Around midnight, I’m usually unable to stay awake.
- I can’t really write in hotel rooms anymore.
- It’s hard to be a part time college student and a traveling adult.
- I don’t drink as much as I used to. A few beers, and I’m done.
- It used to be I could go on a trip for several days and not worry about who I was leaving behind. The previous spouse and I were just that disengaged. (Might explain the divorce.) Now, I really don’t like being on the road without my wife, especially with a stepson.
- Airports simply annoy me. Not flying. I’ve learned to deal with flying. I hate airports. My coworker’s flying pattern is to get to the airport an hour ahead of the flight. I don’t blame him. Security is a hassle. I always seem to end up on Delta, which I consider the airline from hell.
- Frankly, I’m living a different life now, one where home is a destination, not a place to sleep while I ponder where to go or what to do next.
It makes me regret not becoming a writer in my twenties. Of course, I would have been a horrible writer in my twenties. But in my twenties, I would not have cared if I had to sleep on friends’ couches, could stay out til 2 AM on a night when I needed to be at work the next morning, and had few obligations or responsibilities.
That’s also a big reason I gave up on standup. When you’re young, naive, and a bit arrogant, sleeping in roach motels, drinking all night, and living by the seat of your pants don’t seem like problems. I’d probably have lived out of a carry-on bag in those days.
I might have even done my road trip, though I doubt I’d have caused as much havoc as Jack Kerouac.