Wherever You Go There You Are

      In the early 1970s one of my favorite life philosophies was Wherever you go there you are. Long before it was the title of a book on eastern mindfulness meditation, it was the catch phrase of wanderer-at-heart students who focused on living in the moment. It was the stuff of late night discussions on the meaning of life and the existence of the universe. Evenings that usually ended with midnight runs to VG Donuts in our VW bugs followed by all-nighters chasing early morning paper deadlines. 

As a graduation gift my parents gave Morgan and me round trip plane tickets to Mexico City. It was a generous and thoughtful idea, a great opportunity to relax at a charming bougainvillea covered boutique hotel where we could lounge around the pool in our hammocks with frozen lemonades in hand. But instead we cashed in our tickets, jumped on a dusty, creaky Mexican train and headed south, destinations unknown. Our train compartment had worn red velvet upholstery with leather trim, and polished mahogany window frames. There was a toilet and tiny sink. I'm pretty sure it was exactly like The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly minus Clint Eastwood.

It was one of those formational experiences that led to the discovery of my inner five-star resort self, but at the time I figured that wherever I went there I was -- even if it was stifling hot, sticky, and smelly. Every single day of the trip I wore a summery white cotton dress with bright flowers stitched on the bodice, with my red Dr. Scholl's sandals. I might have enjoyed the two weeks better if I'd taken a few more things in my little day pack but I didn't want to lug anything around. Minimalist travel perfected.

Morgan loved everything about the trip. He brought me roses from local markets before I woke up in the morning. He ordered Huevos a la Mexicana and freshly squeezed juice for breakfast; sipped cold Carta Blancas under umbrellas scattered around town plazas diffusing the noontime heat; and munched on fresh giant shrimp by moonlight. He explored ruins and relics and perfected his Spanish. It was worth getting devoured by mosquitoes at a hidden cove because turquoise water lapped coral sand beaches. And getting "the touristas" was just part of the adventure. In so many ways he was -- and always will be -- a romantic adventurer at heart.

Today I'm sitting on a United Airlines flight from London to San Diego via Chicago. I bought extra legroom, no one's sitting next to me, and the plane is only half full. I have on my noise canceling headphones, cozy cashmere socks, and I'm reading Andre Agassi's autobiography on my iPad.

It's trendy these days to complain about the act of traveling, but I bet few of those complainers traveled hardcore like we did back in the day: no money, no baggage, no plans, lots of adventure. The true wanderers-at-heart might think of grumbling when the flight attendant says chicken or beef? but then they remember and catch themselves.

Personally I can't think of anything to whine about right now. I'm so grateful I got to go on this trip. I was there for Oliver's first week of school, when he was excited and worried in his little uniform, carrying his school book bag. I got to tie balloons in the trees for his fifth birthday party, and hide bouncy balls in stumps of trees and tall grasses for the scavenger hunt. I got to see O learn to skateboard in the park and build Lego masterpieces with his dad. And best of all I got to talk with Ashley over endless coffees and orange brioches, on buses and the underground, at lunch in town, on errands in her neighborhood, everywhere.

It's still true that wherever you go there you are. But whenever you go wherever your heart is, you get to come back with a heart full of treasure. And I'm pretty sure that's what traveling is all about.