I used to think I traveled to unearth the dormant dimensions of my being, the risk and exoticism and uncertainty all chipping away at the everyday manifestation of “me.” As crumbling rocks shuttled down the mountain like a comet, dust trailing in their wake, I realized I travel not to unearth the dormant dimensions of my being but to reconnect with risk and exoticism and uncertainty, inviting each to nest in my psyche for a few time-bending days.
As I hiked to the Hollywood sign over the weekend, stumbling, as usual, over the rough terrain (I’m not terribly nature-savvy), I remembered the 12-year-old who didn’t care how frizzy her hair looked on her first trip to Florida. The one who skipped the morning session of a conference to wander the French Quarter of New Orleans. The one who sipped (probably) questionable pomegranate juice from a rickety street cart in Istanbul. Continue reading