A Dreamer of Far-Off Places

I don’t know how to not think about world travels and far-off adventures. Seriously.

I finally caved and subscribe to Travel & Leisure, Forbes Life, and Food & Wine magazines. In their glossy pages I learn about incredible places all over the world, some places I never knew existed. It's bittersweet — torture whilst seeds for fantastic day dreams.

Someday, when I have an infinite source of money, I'm going to go everywhere.

In the meantime, what’s realistic?

Well, if timing weren’t an option, I’d have an adventure planned for the fall. Vegas for a weekend in mid-August, surrounded by 20-somethings with a passion for fun.

From there, fly to LA to visit family. Spend some time soaking up the sun; delve in the wild colors of Venice beach.

Rent a car — a convertible. Top down, windows blaring, up the vast highways of the west coast. Take a wine-tasting tour in Sonoma Valley, bask in the wonders of Big Sur, return to the wine world when I reach Napa. I’d spend the weekend rekindling friendships in San Francisco, a city of fantastic neighborhoods, gorgeous views, and a truly intriguing story. But California would be far from the end.

If I could, I’d go around the world… Hawaii, Australia, Singapore, Thailand, India. Maybe next to Egypt, and then to Eastern Europe. Either way, I’d end up in France.

And from California, that’s exactly what I’d do. Spend the last week of August with cousins in Camarat and friends in St. Tropez. I’d rent another car, lure along another friend, and drive to Paris. More wine, the Gorge du Verdon instead of the Grand Canyon, châteaux instead of mansions. And the grand finale would be a week in Paris with French family.

That would be fun. An adventure worth writing about.

Instead, I fear, this is just a day dream… one that exists to whisk me away from the miserable weather of Boston. It’s been a brisk, bone-chilling spring. I get the whole "April showers…” thing, but what I’d do for a sunny day. Lately, the sun’s blocked out by ominous clouds that produce a slight, freezing horizontal precipitation. It’s actually more like the air above Boston’s streets are saturated with miniature balls of ice, suspended above sidewalks, pelting your face and soaking your clothes as you walk through the gray streets. It's nasty.

I'm sick of winter, bored of spring, and dying for summer.