"A true traveler has no fixed destination and is not intent on arriving."
I've been looking at flight timetables weighing possibilities for the past hour. I've got to get myself back to Europe sometime next week, but I'm traveling a different way. I'm traveling the way I used to travel. The way my Mom taught me. The way of the flight attendant.
I remember standing in the International Terminal of STL - that's St. Louis - one of the main departure hubs for TWA, the company my mother worked for. I lived just across the state in Kansas City and most flights on TWA connected through St. Louis. It was great, a short hop and then I could literally go anywhere in the world.
I was probably returning home from a California Summer, arriving from John Wayne Orange County (SNA) or San Diego (SAN).
That TWA International Terminal was full of possibilities. Milan. London. Paris. Zurich. Frankfurt. Rome. Berlin. Athens. Istanbul. Cairo.
Ah, Cairo. The memories of the bazaars. The stares at the blonde teenage Heather.
I never knew if I would get on the flight, but it was fine, because there was always another one, going someplace else, but nearby enough.
So as I head back to Europe in the next 10 days or so, I ponder where I will land. Will it be in Paris? (I haven't been in Paris, except for the Eurostar, in decades. What about Zurich? I always wanted to go to Switzerland. Or good old London? Dare I return to Germany? After my antics of decades ago and my very German last name, misleading my complete inability to sprekenzie Deutsch.
It all depends on the ticket sales.
I mentally pack my bag. I plan to attempt travel with merely a carry on. I plan to bring my favorite Joshua Tree painting. And I plan to bring an attitude of adventure, of luxurious time. Of travel on my terms.