I need to go there, wherever it is. Not another galaxy or to homestead in a windswept plain, but faaaar. Some place in France. London or Cornwall. A German river cruise. Or Boston, Long Island, NYC, the beach. Not the mountains, because we have plenty of those, thanks.
Yes, things have improved after writing about ” emptiness and pain” in my last blog post. Not all resolved in sugar-fairy-land-la-la but enough to shelve the drama-angst journaling & poem-spewing, for now.
I have an Issue: I need to Go Somewhere. Mainly, France is calling to me. I have no idea why…but it is. But guilt likes to join in the convo, beating me on the head each time I wildly, recklessly think of going on an overseas trip.
My ailment even has a cool name in a foreign language.
It’s not like a hankering for some place you’ve ever been before…I’ve never been farther than Ottawa, Canada (a fantastic destination if you’re wondering) and across the border to Mexicali for one short shopping excursion about a century ago (I didn’t even buy anything there, just stared a lot at the beggars).
It’s not a trip, short distance. It’s not going someplace I’ve been before.
Nope, I’m infected, apparently, with fernweh. I’ve got “farsickness.” (thank you, Yahoo Travel article I can no longer locate) In googling the word, it seems to be epidemic on the web right now; fernweh this, fernweh that, even youtube fernwehs. Leave it to the Germans to invent wild words we don’t have in English, though “farsickness” isn’t too bad. And even though I have a lot of German in my heritage, I don’t care for the language; das tut mir leid, ya’ll. I prefer French even though I’ve never been there but for my florid imaginings. And speak just enough of it to get me into trouble, ask for the time but not necessarily understand the answer, and butcher the few words I think I know. Merci? Pas de quoi! Croissant? Oui, chocolat s’il vous plait! (which I just looked up, spelled wrong, hackchop)
For a couple of years, I’ve had this fernweh brewing. I thought moving & building a house might take care of this restlessness. Nope. Having a new office-studio to clutter & create in. Nah. Maybe a few short trips would zap it in the craw. NO. It’s gotten worse.
At the gym this week, a new friend and I chatted about this year’s “possibilities.” I mentioned we’d sort-of planned to visit France, et al. She mentioned a Euro trip with one of her ex’es, saying it was a trip she’d rather forget.—though Paris was great. (isn’t Paris usually great, barring the recent horrors of Je Suis Charlie??)
“I’m turning (xx) this year,” I said, “and wanted to celebrate by going there. I’m losing weight and getting fit, too, which should help, right?” We talked about how walking was a definite factor overseas; that you’d better be able to do it or else.
“So when are you going,” she asked
“Well…I’m thinking we shouldn’t.”
She stared at me, eyes wide. “Why on earth wouldn’t you?”
“Erm, it’s so expensive,” I lamely began. “And…well…”
Her lips set in a firm line, then she blurted out, with accompanying to-the-point gestures, “And just what are you saving it for?! Seriously!”
Point taken, sort of.
Also recently, our eldest brought up the subject of Her Future and What She Might Do after getting her teaching certificate. She’s looking into Masters programs, yes, you guessed it—overseas. She’s our little world-traveller (she’s also SINGLE & BEAUTIFUL, you guys—I’m resisting the urge to post her pic right now)—and adventurous, like her daddy, so this doesn’t surprise me a bit.
Me? Not so much, to the adventurous part (def not to the single and beautiful part). My idea of high-thrills is to drive slightly over the speed limit, ha-haaa!! I don’t even like flying (“Mom, how would you sit through an eight-hour flight?” my girl asked. “You freak out from LA to Denver!” “Drugs,” I quipped. “Headphones. Earplugs.”)
My ideas of adventure channel into my novels, where people jab swords at griffons and fall from outer space. Where they gallop across wild, windy steppe-lands and worship demonish entities who try to kill them or suck them dry of (curious? You should be; it could be you). Where protected witnesses run for their lives and dashing young men are attacked by guerillas on the Côte d’Ivoire.
See? There’s French sneaking in again. It’s a sign!
So this fernweh is perplexing for me. Turning me a bit schizoid. But I’m restless. Unsatisfied. About ready to, literally, borrow some investment and RUN for it to the nearest airport. I might even take my husband…
Resident-writer program. Simple tour of Normandy. Writing journey in Paris. Ireland?? OMG. Put me out of my fernweh misery, please.