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I miss traveling. Not that I was ever such a globetrotting gadabout (that is totally my official title on my next set of business cards, though: “Robin Smith, Esquire – Globetrotting Gadabout for hire”), but I did manage to get to London, Paris, Yorkshire, New York (three times), Toronto (twice), and Montreal, all in just over six months. Nowadays I am officially docked in Ottawa whilst I pinch pennies to fund Operation Get The Fuck Out Of Dodge, Like, Permanently.

But I miss it! I miss airports. I miss the harried, impromptu camaraderie that will turn to dog-eat-dog savagery on a dime if a fellow traveler butts in line or takes too much time jamming their duffel bag into the overhead compartment. I miss packing, badly, at the last minute (“Will I really need six virtually identical black tank tops for three days?? …No time to think! Of course I will.”). I miss twee tiny shampoo bottles. I miss checking in: it gives such an official sense of having arrived somewhere. I miss reading maps, also badly; and wondering as my plane begins its descent exactly where the fuck I’m going and how the fuck I’m going to get there. But what I really miss is that “on vacation” attitude: “It doesn’t matter if I eat/smoke/drink/fuck this! I’M ON VACATION!” as though natural consequences are somehow suspended through a simple trick of geography.

Sweet buggering Christ I’m bored. I’m willing to pay a significant ransom to anyone who will do me the small service of kidnapping me.

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