I’m learning to fly but I ain’t got wings
Coming down is the hardest thing
“Learning to Fly”—Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers
This past March, Husband and I were on a trip to Abu Dhabi, Oman, and Qatar. As borders shut and flights became limited, I cobbled together an itinerary and got us out of Doha. We’ve been grounded since.
Up until then, we’d been living out of suitcases for the best part of eight years. Sojourns in the States felt transitory, with much time spent on errands, shopping for necessities, and planning for future trips. Most of the clothes in my closet were for wearing elsewhere, not at home. Home didn’t even feel like the right word; upscale storage unit was more fitting.
Now, instead of a hotel room—essentially a studio apartment—or Airbnb—usually a two-bedroom flat—Husband and I have spent the last four months in a four-bedroom house, the most living space we’ve had for such an extended period of time in almost a decade. Our suitcases are not only unpacked, but stowed.
More space is only the first of many advantages. We sleep in sheets nicer than those in hotels or Airbnbs. We work out in the bedroom that has become our home gym. We do laundry in a fancy-dancy washer and dryer, a luxury—the dryer especially—we usually don’t have when traveling. Ditto our dishwasher; when we’re in an Airbnb, it’s usually Husband.
My shower is big enough I don’t have to take care not to bump my elbows. I write at an adjustable-height desk while sitting in an ergonomic chair (without wearing earplugs to block out Husband’s phone calls because we aren’t both working in the same room). I prepare meals in a well-appointed kitchen (no playing the Airbnb where’s-the-spatula/pot lid/wine opener game).
Disadvantages? Each day is nearly the same as the one before it. Not unpleasant, certainly, and I know many have it much, much worse. But it’s a routine nonetheless. And it’s not my jam.
I am used to—and miss dreadfully—the variety near-constant travel brings. I can’t get out of my head the idea, I’m not supposed to be here. Instead of studying Spanish or Italian, I should be conversing with native speakers. Instead of walking one of three routes in the neighborhood, I should be navigating across new cities. Instead of looking at art exhibits online, I should be touring museums in person. Instead of home-cooked meals, I should be trying the signature dish of a faraway restaurant. There were many days I was like a tiger pacing her cage, pining for jungles in India.
Lately, though, I’m starting to see the bright side of simpler days. Writing in a comfortable place as long as I wish—no small-screened laptop on a rickety table, no time constraint because of a plane to catch. Making WhatsApp calls to friends around the world, taking advantage of our speedy WIFI. Dinner time as a new frontier as I try to re-create dishes I’ve learned in cooking classes during my travels. (Caramelized eggplant and greens from Vietnam or pasta with gorgonzola, walnuts, and dried apricots from Milan, anyone?) When restlessness hits, I tamp it down by perusing maps of places I still want to explore or look at photos of favorite spots I plan to revisit.
Our upscale storage unit is becoming more than a way station to wait out the virus and its effects. It’s turning into a place where I’m creating an alternative life—happiness, even—while the rest of the world is inaccessible.
Make no mistake, though; the tiger still paces her cage. I can hardly wait to travel, even though it may be years before I can.
But I do wonder if once I’m exploring the world again whether this place will revert to being an upscale storage unit…or remain a different sort of home.
