Tired of Traveling

I am tired of traveling. The thought first showed up last night at dusk. Except for the Peter Pan hostel in Rome, which lacked air conditioning, we haven't slept in a bed since Caltrano, Italy two-and-a-half weeks ago. Since the beaches of Hvar, we have been working our way north and west toward Spain, not stopping in any one place for more than two nights.

We awoke yesterday morning to the sound of a helicopter that wouldn't go away. In the rough seas of the day before a 22-year-old who was staying at the campground disappeared. Presumably by this point, they were looking for a body, not saving a life. We drove north, full with the spirit of Le Cinque Terre, excited to meet some of our new friends from Croatia in their home town of Barcelona. After winding our way out of Italy and into France on Route 1, we opted for the highway. This meant more than 15 Euros worth of tolls, but more direct. After eight hours of driving we found ourselves in the fishing village of Sete in search of a payphone or WiFi connection.

Some thoughts are like cirrus clouds. They are wispy brush strokes high in the sky, disconnected from everything, disappearing just as they appeared in the blue. Others are like thunderheads, taking an entire day to build up. They assemble methodically and ominously. I don't know what kind of though, "I'm tired of traveling" is yet. When it first appeared at dusk last night, we had no place to sleep. After a day of a cell phone with a German SIM card that we couldn't successfully get to call a Spanish number, we finally called our contacts in Spain. This only to learn that our friends in Barcelona wouldn't be there for another week. And our friend's aunt in Bilboa had broken her wrist and felt she could no longer properly host guests. As day became night we found ourselves drinking 3 Euro sangrias outside of a bar with WiFi. We checked couchsurfing. We checked Facebook. We checked e-mail.

"The universe provides," replaced "I am tired of traveling." Within 20 minuts, we had a couch to stay on toward weeks' end on the Costa Brava in Spain. And an old friend messaged saying she was stuck at her dad's place near the French-Spanish border a few extra nights due to Hurricane Irene back in New York City. Fitting, I suppose, given that it was also the sixth anniversary of the day Hurricane Katrina upended our lives back in New Orleans. Excited for a friend, shower, bed and kitchen tomorrow, we enjoyed a long fixed price Thai meal. We wandered Sete until near midnight, when we found some cliffs over the sea, rolled out our thermarests and sleeping bags and slept under the stars. We expected to be woken early by joggers and dogwalkers at sunrise.

We weren't. But we found ourselves in a McDonald's parking lot shortly after 8 am awaiting a response from Brittany on where she was and how to meet up. When there was nothing, we decided to go to the grocery store to buy breakfast then drive toward the border. We would check again at lunch time. We detoured for a two-hour wine tour and tasting in a cellar converted from an old gypsum mine outside of Narbonne. Complete with videos, music and light shows, we fell in love with the area. Sampling eight wines certainly helped. We bought four.

We drove and wandered a couple of towns looking for an Internet connection. Close to an hour later we found one outside of Le Rotonde Brasserie in Segina. We found a message back from Brittany that she was Barcelona-bound. Here we are again without a place to sleep tonight. And we're hungry. And everything seems to be closed. The thought returns; I am sick of traveling. I remember my brother-in-law's advice--when things get tough, there is always a beach nearby. So, after lunch, we head to the beach in Port La Nouvelle.

After a nap and a swim, I decide to walk the beach. It is long and sandy. People and umbrellas populate it for a few miles. So I walk the shoreline, in and out of the waves. A child digs a moat in the sand down towards the water. I am tired of traveling. I miss home. The clouds build. A couple plays paddle ball, ankle deep in the water. It reminds me of childhood vacations on Longnook Beach in Cape Cod. I would play with my brother, my dad and my mom, whomever I could get to play, for hours.

I spend an awful lot of time worrying about where we will sleep tonight. Especially when one considers that we have a car, a tent, two sleeping bags and two therm-a-rests. We can sleep anywhere. And the coast has almost as many camping areas as ice cream shops. Perhaps this is why we build our safe and secure and predictable world back home, with our jobs, our routines, our houses. It's all to keep us cushioned, save us from (momentary) concerns about the basics. Irrational fears.

I feel disappointed. A place to sleep is one thing. But I was looking forward to a friend to talk with. After all, Annette is the only friend here. And we have spent 24 hours a day together for four months now. No matter how much we love each other, it gets grinding at times.

A pit bull is digging in the sand, focused on a single task relentlessly, until far beyond the natural end. The way only a pit bull can. It's straight tail sticks out from its hole. It pauses while I walk by, so as not to kick sand on me.

I miss home isn't about missing my home or even New Orleans. Then what is it? I don't really want to go home. I just want to enjoy the company of family and friends. Old friends. Good friends. Nothing in particular needs to be talked about.

A crutch rests on the shore. The waves reach it, but it doesn't move. I wonder how this crutch got here. Did its owner disappear into the sea. It seems as if it was left there, no longer needed, recently. Did somebody experience a miraculous recovery? Or did they hurl the crutch toward the sea in frustration and despair before dragging themselves back across the sand?

I see campers parked near the beach and wonder if we should sleep there tonight or pay for a formal site. What will Annette want? And how much will it cost? If we spen more money, will our experience be better? I have always hated the sterility of hotels. I prefer my tent to that.

I come upon a small fish writhing in the sand. Its gills are flapping. I flick it back in the water with my big toe. It swims away with two of its friends. It was as if the other two fish were waiting just at the land's edge, concocting a plan to save their fish friend's life. Maybe I was the plan.

I turn around. The walk back on the beach is always longer than the walk there. It's ground you have already covered. I try not to cover the same ground twice. But there is much to look at. And all is new now, nearly an hour later. I wonder if there is any paper to write on back at our towel. I know my constant concern over where we are going, how we get there, what we will do, what we will eat and where we will sleep drives Annette crazy sometimes. It wears me out sometimes too. Perhaps transcending that is the purpose of this journey. Perhaps it is merely learning to live with it and enjoy life.