It had all the makings of a romantic anecdote.
Four of us were nestled in the body off an all-terrain truck. We listened to country music from the 1950s. We marveled at the thousands of wind turbines, the out-of-commission gas stations, the dead deer and the pink skyline. I drifted in and out of sleep comforted by the fact that I had slipped back into time.
Driving through West Texas and New Mexico makes you feel like you’re cool as shit. That you’re the only person brave enough to step foot into this frontier. For the duration of the drive, you entertain moving to a town called Milagro or Truth or Consequences and you know that you could be happy there. You’d grow your hair long, make art out of found desert objects and create a shrine to Georgia O’Keefe.
As we made our way into Santa Fe, I took note of the sand colored pueblo-style houses with splashes of turquoise, sunshine and magenta, I thought, “I’m home. This is my home.”
Of course I’ve said that in every town I’ve ever fallen in love with and there have been a lot.
The want to pick up and start a new adventure creeps upon me every trip I take.
I become a city groupie.
Winter is the season for wanderlust. Where anywhere is better than here. Every year I make a promise to myself to travel more — it’s good for the soul. It’s good for all our souls. Even if it’s a town 30 minutes away, it’s a new adventure, a new scene. I adore Austin like my left kidney, but sometimes I need to get out. A lot of times I need to get out, and after every time I do, I feel completely new. New inspirations to write about, new visions to dream about.
And there are many places I dream about….