My Universe Is Small. And That’s Fine With Me.

I travel to Harvard Square about as often as I punch myself in the genetalia. Last night I made an exception to go have dinner with a friend, and was amazed that I was technically still in the same city I woke up in this morning. Boston proper is a very small city, compared to most of the other global urban death mazes, but it’s peripheries stretch out forever. Cambridge is definitely a parallel galaxy as far as I’m concerned, but as interesting as it was to get out and stretch my horizons, I felt quite happy to be back in the North End come the witching hour.

Travel used to be my favorite thing. I had been all over the world and lived and worked in 3 different countries by 25, and went to 3 different high schools. I haven’t had an inkling of wanderlust in the last 7 years and have only been off the continent once in all that time. My current universe extends between the Banknorth Garden and Copley, and I’m not even beginning to lament that.

Writing this, however, I see that I am indeed due for a trip. I spend loads of time travelling back and forth to Canada every year, but obviously that doesn’t really count. So where should I go? I have lots of friends in England, Ireland and Scotland, a first cousin in Spain, and a gang of peeps in California. I think I have to go somewhere I’ll have a contact this time around, because I’m about as close to finding a life partner as an earthworm. I think I’m leaning towards Spain. Suggestions?