A Backpack Full of Dreams

Unpack them all on strange hotel beds, wake me up by check out time

My astrologer told me I’ve got both a wanderlust and desire to stay in one place. We interpreted it as making a home wherever I am. But that’s only partially true. When I stay somewhere too long, I want to go again. I want to go to the unknown, unnamed, as of yet, unfound. Down mountains and sometimes underground, I always want to keep going. Thank goodness for cheap flights and overpriced trains; I always make it back to the road. 

When I was 8, my favorite place to sleep was a hotel room. My second favorite was my Grandma’s house. The plasticky, gray, back row of seats in my family’s 15-passenger van were acceptable too. I loved being everywhere, dreaming of everything, and staying home rarely. As often as I could, I wanted to go. I don’t know where, but I wanted to fly, fly free. 

When the pressure got real tight and I was about to burst, it was thoughts of far away that vented steam. My father told me stories of the Soviet Union. My mother fondly spoke of her months spent in Israel. I read books about the wars that happened in Europe and naively thought that the countries hadn’t changed since the 1940s. I’d get mellow in wishful thoughts of going, never coming back. I didn’t really believe that one day, I would go and (truly) never want to come back. 

Once, when I was 18 or 19 or so - before I felt how big the world was - I was in the bathroom at a friend’s house. The shower curtain was one big plastic map. I sat on the toilet and my eyes glazed over the cities’, countries’, and continents’ names. I thought about how I want to go places I rarely heard of. I want to explore towns with no names, villages that never made it onto a globe. I want to dive into the unknown, not know what I’ll find. I want to stay on that big, open road. 

A few months later, I booked a month trip to Colombia. My best friend was a salsa dancer and I found hostels that cost $10 a night. We landed in Cartagena and met a kind couple out dancing. They invited us down to Cali. On the bus over, a young dad held a thin plastic bag over his mouth and his cell phone up to his eyes. He wouldn’t stop vomiting on the 10-hour ride. He couldn’t stop watching movies either.

I got my taste of adventure and went back for more. I wanted to find new temporary homes. I went to Amsterdam and Antwerp. Then, I dated a guy and we traversed the tri-state area every weekend. We broke up and I was done with New York. I bought a backpack, sublet my room, and got a one way flight to Paris. London, Florence, and a bunch of countries followed after that. Covid slowed things down but I’m back, I’m back on that beautiful, big open road. 

I went home a few weeks ago- my first home, where I was once a kid. I took a few days and caught up with family. I couldn’t sleep well when I was there, I wanted to leave. All I kept thinking was going standby on an earlier flight, or taking a car and driving elsewhere. I didn’t feel home. It’s fitting, I thought; the closer I am to what I know, the further I want to go. 

Everyone asks: Where are you going? What are you trying to find?  I’ve tried understanding it and haven’t; so I keep going. I’m not looking for home because that’s what every new place becomes. In many ways, I think this mimics life. We’re here for 80 years on an extended stay. We get to know the world and then we’re out again.   

In all the cities I’ve explored, I never found something more homey than breaking in a new bed. Maybe that’s why I love hotels. They have all the physical comforts and I bring my emotional ones with me. Away from familiar chaos on the big, endless road is where I feel alive. I feel at home.

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