Homesick for Travel

I'm getting homesick for travel, for places to shine despite their normality. Buying groceries in a May Berlin drizzle, knowing the next few days will also be cold and wet. Homesick for the apartment we always went in and out of in the rain, and how that added to its value. How it only had a paper lantern in the sunless hall, but slabs of paneless glass in the other two rooms: kitchen and bedroom. If you could even call the rooms those names—the bedroom contained a studio and a dining room, with empty plastic beer cases as chairs. The kitchen doubled as a garden, the bathroom with its narrow fogged glass window doubled as a greenhouse.

Homesick for lying on the lawn of Vienna's greenhouse, leaving to buy a chain-food lunch (low funds) and then back to the grass. The worst seats in the Budapest Opera. Having to carry beers inside because of rain. Living with four Italian dudes and taking the bus to Nerja on Tuesdays, outnumbered by British girls. Buying store-brand espresso at the Realejo Supersol, but being force-fed Illy four times a day. Rolling the clichéd cig-after-the-morning-coffee because the tobacco just happens to be there. All the things I never planned to do.

Maybe it's something (or lack thereof) from infancy that makes me miss being swaddled into a city by my host, playing follow the leader, ducking into the subway seemingly at random, having to watch for an eyebrow pop or head nod as the stations tick off, and following again through the crowd as tunnels are chosen and we eventually emerge I don't know where. Not having to deduce atmosphere and vibe from façades, guidebooks and a peek in the door (fun as that is), just following locals into pre-certified spots—for the view, the music, the terrace, the crowd and always a drink.

I'm happy enough to improvise completely, but there also can be something cozy about using the guidebook just because Dad brought it along, transferring key information and Plan B's onto a half-sheet of paper, folding it into a pocket and consulting it on the sly. Good has come out of the practice: my brother and I have found places we wanted to stay and have another, we've found people able to point us to hookah bars and we've even found places so Scarface-cool it's a miracle the book didn't adulterate them. (Did we really find any of this? Does a good guidebook let you find or just feel like you're finding, and is there a difference?) And all of this guidebook-led business works because my brother and I can chill without forcing too many interrogatives onto the evening, spend more time settled in conversation (argh! spending time, I can't stand the expression), or, at least, wander as much as we want, holding options besides what we stumble upon.