wanderlust

It's become the best part of the week, when I'm driving north on the highway on a Monday evening, coming home from the park in the next town down where I've just played a community band concert. Last night I felt as if I should just keep driving, my windows down, Vanda on shuffle (I always give them names), night all around me. I thought, well, in six hours if I keep driving north I could be at my parents' house. I sort of wish I had an excuse to run away. Or a not-excuse. It's hard to flee from comfort. Besides, New York is clearly not the answer. I have a recurring fantasy of giving fair warning to boss and family and friends and then disappearing for a week. I wouldn't make plans, but I'd take maps, and I'd take granola bars and a tent and my brilliant little car and we'd just see what would happen next.