a melancholy road

The past few weeks have been a whirlwind, first a frenzy to leave Colorado, then a head-spinning tour of the Midwest, and now a jaunt through the American-image factory of California. From the time I left Colorado a week and a half ago, I've seen close to 20 sets of people in Missouri, Kansas, Iowa and now sunny - or smoggy, rather - California: about 100 folks in all ... and a handful more yet to go before I cross the ocean. Whew.

Then it's a small feat just hauling this much crap across the country ... I rode a shuttle from the airport with a family of eight - count them, EIGHT, and traveling cross-country no less - who had a mere four tidy bags among them. I probably could have packed most of those kids AND their luggage away in my four. I cast longing looks at the business travelers' sleek little carry-ons as I trudge through hotel hallways and parking lots with my unwieldy lot. In the elevators, people make quips about how I sure have a lot of stuff. I sure do. Thank goodness for carts and shuttle drivers.

Touring the country has also been a survey of my past. I've been away from the central part of the country long enough now that the West feels like home, and the domesticity and tufted hills of the Midwest seem almost exotic as the eccentrics and ocean view in California. And I already miss those Colorado staples I once found unusual: pine trees and scrub oak, the crazy peak baggers and other adrenaline junkies, green chili and avocados everywhere.

As one of my friends observed, travel can make a person melancholy because it acquaints you with wonders of the world - people, places, sights, tastes, experiences - that you can never possess at the same time, meaning you give up a bit more each time you switch spots. Another friend gave me a card with a quote attributed to Confucius: something like "Wherever you go, go with all your heart." The thought was quite apt for my move East, but I can't say I agree with old Fuschy on this one. It seems that if you've fully lived and you've moved around, you can't help but leave pieces of your heart scattered about. Each place I've been still tugs on me, and it does make me somewhat melancholy to tour that and evoke all those visions of other paths I could have taken ... could still take.

But you only get to do it once, and a melancholy heart is a full one, I suppose, for each of those places that I left a piece of myself, I also gained memories and - more important - friendships. People who give me words for this melancholy and Eastern proverbs to mull, as well as ongoing windows into all those places in the world I love.