Ruins Artists in The Lamplight

And Being a Reluctant Traveler

Once a year, I gather my life up, agonize over packing the perfect suitcase, and fly to the other side of America. My years of carefree hopping across oceans at the slightest provocation are most definitely behind me. I flew to Ireland in October of 2001 (think on that date). I’ve been to China and Argentina and The Canary Islands. For a little hillbilly from Western Pennsylvania, I have got myself to some interesting places.

I have walked through the ossuaries underneath Paris, stayed awake through the night to watch the water lift our ship up at the lock of The Three Gorges Dam, dragged my too-heavy suitcase over the cobblestones of Venice, slept in medieval German castles, drank Guinness until the wee hours with Irish fishermen, wandered through some of the oldest cemeteries in Europe, and scuba dove (dived?) exactly once off the coast of Africa.

Travel has now become a thing that must be endured in order to make important things happen. You may wonder at my lack of optimism on th…