Like all men endowed with great mental mobility, I have an irrevocable, organic love of settledness. I abhor new ways of life and unfamiliar places. — Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet A friend recently asked whether we had any trips planned this summer. Hell no, I said. I hate traveling. Driving and flying are uncomfortable for long distances; meals become tactical problems; sleep becomes theoretical; bathroom breaks require logistics. I enjoy my routine. It does not imprison me. It steadies me. I have to have it pried from my fingers, preferably by men with court orders and rifles. If your thoughts are already roaming all day, why would you also want your meals, sleep, bathroom habits, shoes, luggage, and spinal column thrown into disorder? Travel is sold as expansion, but for some of us it feels more like being evicted from our own nervous system. The Lady’s sister is visiting in a couple weeks and asked whether we could take her to the beach, more than three hours away.…
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