Longing for Budapest I want to cruise the Danube from Switzerland to the Black Sea drifting from one fairytale to the next.
I’m more interested in Vienna than Paris thought I certainly wouldn’t turn up my nose at the Louvre and afternoon coffee on the Seine.
An overwater bungalow with a thatched roof in the Fiji appeals more than Bali, though the terraced rice paddies are really something.
Thailand would be lovely. But Vietnam’s beckoning is stronger. A train from north to south. My family has a history there.
Speaking of which — Ireland. But Edinburgh shouts louder. It’s wilder, I think. A little rough around the edges, like my chosen home.
I was in Guatemala on an aid trip fifty years ago this year. I’d like to see it with these eyes. That 17-year-old’s were perhaps too young.
The choices are limitless and overwhelming. When at most. I can choose one. Maybe two. My finite bank account is an officious clerk refusing to stamp my passport so I can move on.
I have perhaps twenty more years of life left in me. Maybe less. Maybe a lot less.
The years have been kind. The years have been brutal. I have experienced great joy as well as great sorrow. Through it all, I hoped for a tranquil journey. Through it all, tranquility has been elusive. Fleeting glimpses here and there. Moments of contentment were rare.
But I had hope. I believed in someday. If I were organized enough, if I worked hard, if I was a good person, if… if…if… all would be well. Life would be like boating on a placid sea with a colorful sail rippling in the gentle breeze of deep summer.
I handled the chaos. The stress. The upheaval.
I was often overwhelmed, but I continued moving forward. I tended to my child, who was and is the love of my life. I tended to my house. I tended the garden that brought me glimpses of tranquility when hummingbirds fed at the trumpet vine. I tended to my job. I was not so good at tending to my spouse. We divorced just shy of our twentieth anniversary.
These past twenty years as a divorced, perimenopausal woman have been chaotic and heartbreaking. I often quip that my New Year’s resolution is to be bored. I have been accused of being dramatic, but the drama invaded my life uninvited. I did not conjure it, nor did I encourage the spectacle.
When sent home to quarantine during the pandemic, I hoped for three weeks. Three weeks to hole up in my house and find my equanimity. Three weeks to figure out my life. Three weeks to decompress, regroup, and emerge again fortified and ready to take on the world.
The previous year had been eventful — much of it in not a good way. Still, there were things to celebrate. I turned 60, and my only child had a small destination wedding in Spain. I was the only person on my son’s guest list able to attend. His father had health issues, his grandmothers were too old to make the trip, and so on.
With some trepidation, I planned my first solo international vacation. I raided my 401K and gifted myself an epic two weeks on the island of Ibiza. It was my 60th birthday present to me. The expense was considerable. It was also my only child’s wedding. It was an escape from the stressfest that was my life, and I pulled out all the stops. Sixty! Who would have believed such a state was possible?
Shamelessly Stolen from Vintage Hawaii on Facebook
I’m standing on the boardwalk between teahouses, looking down at the koi glistening in the Honolulu sunset.
I am so thin that everyone thinks they’re being original by calling me Twiggy. This evening, we are celebrating my 8th birthday at the Pagoda Restaurant. August 3, 1967. We didn’t know it yet, but I would soon be diagnosed with a serious thyroid problem that was rare in kids.
There were not enough calories to keep me unhungry. I was never sated. Never full. My metabolism was always on overdrive due to my hyperactive thyroid.
My father, a career Marine, had been transferred to the Marine base in Kaneohe. We – my mother, brother, and I – joined him there in May. We also didn’t know it yet, but my father would soon ship out for another year in Vietnam. He had just gotten back from his first tour. By the time he left the Marine Corps, he had been through four combat tours.
But on the night of my 8th birthday, we stood on the boardwalk of the Floating Pagoda Restaurant waiting for a table to open. I was entranced by the fish, but hungry. As usual.
I think this was my first experience with fine dining. It’s the first one I can remember. The open-air restaurant was all white tablecloths, glistening china, and cold ice water in the first goblets I’d ever seen. The Asian waitresses wore exquisitely embroidered kimonos that gleamed in the light.
My father was finally back, and we were all together again. I was so very happy. I was a Daddy’s girl until the day he died at 79.
I’m rowing in rough waters though it’s a waste of my precious energy. The waves are strong, the current powerful and I am too weak to fight it any longer.
But I’m looking for a coast. A harbor. A place of safety to wait out the storm. To recuperate. To perhaps find paradise. I try to guide the boat in the direction the waves break assuming the shore is in that direction.
I no longer know where I am.
The boat is gray weathered wood and perhaps not seaworthy any longer. I’ve been out here a good long time. There used to be days of a becalming. Flat water and I could see the dolphins jump and play. I could see the seabirds swoop and dive into the azure deep. I could hear the whales and see the starfish on the ocean floor.
Now it is just water the color of the boat. In turmoil and rage and beating rain.
Oh, for the skies to clear. For the tide ruled by the moon to guide me to safe harbor and smooth sand. To palm trees and brightly colored birds. To friendly souls who will take me in and tend my wounds.
For I am wounded in the places you can’t see. My pride is wounded. My soul. My innermost me. This has been the storm of a lifetime. I didn’t see it coming though perhaps I should have. I was just out here in my boat when the sea roughened and the skies darkened.
The ancient ones had told me to take care when I took the boat out. They told me the sea was not my friend. They told me it would beat me down and that I should stay where I was and prepare for the inevitable storm. To live with storm shutters and lanterns near a lighthouse. To light a fire in my hearth and pray for the lost.
But blue skies and frothy white-capped swells called to me. I imagined the wonders and I took off. Alone and poorly provisioned. I am the lost.
It has been a journey. One with no destination of my planning other than to seek wonders. And I have seen them. For that I should be grateful. I have seen things that others only dream of. I have been captain and crew. Jailor and prisoner. Now I am fighting for what’s left of me. For the real me – the one that got pushed aside while I rowed and bailed water.
I am looking for safe harbor. Smooth sand. A warm sun to turn my face to. A friend to tend my wounds, give me nourishment, and help me find the hope that was my inner compass for so long.
W. Va. Fur and Root 
