“There is a time for departure, even
when there's no certain place to go.” – Tennessee Williams
Denver, 4 p.m.
This is how I travel. I am sitting on a
bench in downtown Denver surrounded by a mountain of luggage – the
old green suitcase that I took to the Marshall Islands years ago; the
dirty, fraying backpack I bought for $100 on a streetcorner in
Missoula; the giant duffel I carried to Hawaii. My life is in these
bags – and yet, it's not. Anyone passing by could easily snatch
one, and my life would continue, this great journey that belongs to
me and me alone. I do not doubt that there will be someone with whom
I will share it for a good long stretch right down the middle, but in
the beginning and in the end, it is solely mine. There
are stories and moments and memories that reside only in my own
body. I try to write some of them down, and many others I share
as I travel over this earth, along its highways and through its maze
of cities, up canyons and ridges, down rivers and seas. I meet so
many people along the way. We pass in and out of each others' lives like planets
spinning in orbit, intersecting at precise moments in space. When I travel I call up these old friends, and they pick up
me and my luggage and we go places and do things and
talk about where we were when we first crossed paths and where it is
we hope to go. They shuttle me between each other, these friends of
mine who live in the same city and yet do not know each other except
through their connection to me. Six degrees of separation. I travel
without a schedule, without plans. The roads sweep me up and drop me
in places I never expected. I find myself sitting in downtown Denver among tall glass
buildings mirroring the sun, scribbling in my notebook and watching
the people who walk by, each of us wanting the same things but taking
different roads to get there, some of us smiling at each other, some
looking straight ahead; some in pairs, others alone, none of us
knowing quite where we will be when we wake up tomorrow morning.
In the glass wall of the bus station I
see an image of myself, dissected by the square panes of glass: a
pile of luggage and a girl sitting next to it with a notebook and
pen, a river of cars streaming behind her.
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