The Wanderlust of Non-World Traveler

Some people dream of Marrakesh. I dream of different varieties of gas station snacks.

Lately, I’ve been in one of my moods.

For those of you who’ve had the misfortune of following my writing for decades now, you’re probably aware of these moods.

I’m a collector of many things in life: Persian rugs, Chinoiserie vases, Waterford, Moods about how there is literally nothing more difficult in the entire universe than being a middle class white lady who sometimes doesn’t get her way.

Especially the latter. I’m going to need to rent a storage unit to find space for all of those Moods.

But, after four or five relatives all reminding me to please shut up about the unspeakable tragedy of a misplaced YETI cup and pair of broken Oliver People’s frames, I’ve decided to re-focus my energies back on the topic of hope.

Specifically, “What would I do if life suddenly went right, and God decided to shower me with all of the cool things he gave the Kanakuk kids when they prayed?”

At first, it sounded like a silly question.

“Well God, I want you to get me a giant swimming pool of money, like Scrooge McDuck. But filled with Jello, waterbeads, and cash, to help break my fall!”

Also, a Porsche. With a Mercedes G-Wagon. Vintage. So I don’t look like I’m trying too hard, even though I’m actually trying waaaaay harder than the contractor in a new, fully loaded G-Wagon.

…

Then I remembered that my Volvo has really comfortable seats’ and it beeps anytime other cars try to invade our personal bubble.

It is that as cool as a Porsche or G-Wagon? No. But it’s ideal for somebody with an aching back and a terror of stranger danger.

When I thought about it like that, I realized that most of my dreams of wanderlust are…modest. Extremely modest. Possibly kind of lame, compared to the people who’ve built entire identities around stories from the Costa Rican jungle.

But also, the rainforest is just a bunch of trees. All I have to do is drive down Forest Park, and I can see all of the (dead) trees I ever wanted! Ten minutes, $2 in gas money, and that rainforest disaster tale is all mine!

So what do I actually want to do? What do I genuinely pray that I’ll get to experience before I die?

• Minneapolis-Edina. Is this where dreams are made? Hell no. It’s like St. Louis, but with worse weather and more political violence. But also, The Southdale Mall. The Mall of America.

  The single most important icon of my childhood and adolescence was developed by Victor Gruen, to give Edina shoppers a place to pick up new khakis in bad weather. And it’s still there. Southdale.

• Canada. Just…Canada. I want to see Banff. I want a one-day ski pass for Whistler, even though I’m bad at all sports. If I never ski again? Awesome. But just once before I’m tool old, I want to get to stand up on skis. And I want to feel extra cosmopolitan because I didn’t go to Vail like everybody else.

  Also, The West Edmonton Mall! All of the miracles of the Mall of America, but bigger.

• Snow pictures with my husband. The professional kind. Snow pictures are literally the most romantic thing in the world, and just once, I want to get to imagine being a princess, too! A princess surrounded by pure, white snow!

• Japan. India. The actual places would be cool, but realistically, if somebody wants build an “India Immersion Experience” in like, Orange County, that might be even better. Shorter plane ride. No language barrier. Just lots of opportunities to stock up on vintage saris and kimonos from the air conditioned comfort of Newport Beach. But with lots of fake architecture to sell the experience and convince me that I’ve “basically experienced the real thing, but without the bad parts”.

It doesn’t have to have authentic-authentic. Just give me something that looks vaguely architecturally interesting, has dining options for every price point, and thousands of beaded textiles to make me sob with happiness. Also, Chicken Tikka Masala, because that’s my favorite.

• Meeting Donald Duck

I’m not “a Disney Adult”. In fact, I have an active hatred against Disney. I could never in a trillion years spend my hard-earned money to go dance around with Cinderella while some random stranger’s kid wipes snot on me. No thanks. Here’s my dry cleaning bills, you fat bunch of Nebraska Oompa Loompas. Also, if your kid tries to run in front of me again, he’s going to learn his first physics lesson about gravity. Hope you have dental insurance, because I’m sure as shit going to make that look like an accident.

But Christ. Donald Duck softens my heart in the way that only two or three things can. He brings out displays of candid emotion rarely seen at any other time, weddings and funerals included.

Will I spend Disney Money to try to soften my heart for five minutes? Hello no. I gave up on spending my own money for personal growth a long time ago. But if health insurance paid for an opportunity to meet Donald Duck? I’ll be first in line.

It could be pretty cost-effective, too: I might not throw out my back screaming at other drivers as often. One trip to meet Donald at a dinner sounds way cheaper than anything health insurance is paying for right now.

• Flamingo. Just anywhere where I get to hang out with flamingos. Bonus points if I get to take pictures with them, because that will be the photo I use for every social media profile until I die!

……

By definition, this whole piece is literally nothing but escapism. It has no point. It’s the ramblings of somebody going stir crazy from a week-long heatwave.

But also, if you’re reading this, there’s a good chance I’m not alone. Thee’s a good chance similar thoughts have crossed your minds.

So this is the place! Spill all of your escapist dreams in the comment section. Big. Small. Want to meet Mickey Mouse? Want to meet the guy dressed up outside the Ice Capades? I’m not judging. If anything, I’ll find myself wanting to join!