I just scrolled through the New York Times' 52 Places to Go in 2020, including Japan, Bolivia, Kenya and Greenland, in addition to a few European standbys (Paris; Krakow; Transylvania; Asturias).
Maybe I'm tired; I know I'm older than I used to be, but I wasn't ready to be overwhelmed by a pervasive melancholy. Since I was a little kid teaching myself to read by looking at encyclopedias, I've seen photos of faraway places and wanted to go there. My entire adult life has been calculated to scratch the Europe itch.
People always want to know what you do, as though one's job corresponds with what he or she is as a human. At heart, whether or not I've ever made money from them, I'm a writer, a traveler and a beer drinker.
Put those on my tombstone.
Time marches on, and the opportunities gradually atrophy. I've been very fortunate; I've also made a lot of my own breaks, and have marvelous memories galore. However, the odds are good that the returns will diminish from here; there'll be fewer opportunities to roam as age and decrepitude intrude.
If we could leave tomorrow and spend a month in Sicily ...
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