This year started with a plan.
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| The montage of the obscure photos posted to Facebook. (The license plate is Swedish, by the way.) |
I was going up to San Francisco for the seven weeks of
non-travel time, through February 19th.
I got two places through airbnb.com in the city.
I signed up for a meetup.com event every day.
I drove up on January 2nd. I checked into my
first place, which by the way had absolutely the most awesome dog in the world.
My first meetup was a bust as I never found it.
But after that, I worked every day, posted an obscure
picture taken within the city to Facebook to keep my friends guessing as to
what city I was in, and went to a meetup every weekday evening or in the
afternoon on the weekends.
(A quick review of my meetup highlights: I saw the trails of
San Bruno, learned about comic strips as a method of communication, did a walking
tour from Ferry Building to North Shore, saw a three set comedy act on being
single in the city, learned about software pricing strategies from some
economists at major software firms including Microsoft.)
And yet…
When I got a text, out of the blue, with no preamble: “can
you go for a few days? Puerto Vallarta, possibly Honolulu?”
Like a jonesing addict, my twelve day stay in San Francisco
came to an abrupt end.
Out of the car came my “just-in-case” suitcase of summer
clothing, into the car went the winter clothes, and off to long-term parking
went the car.
Literally on my way to the airport, another email came in
which essentially said, “Can you be in Germany for the end of January?”
I loved San Francisco from January 2nd to January
15th.
Personally I am at a state of extreme conflict. I really
fundamentally LOVE my travel life. I
love my thick passport. I love sitting here on the plane writing. I love the
fact I will have a great dinner with old friends/colleagues in Puerto Vallarta
tonight.
But my girlfriend in Sweden could really use a hug. My
girlfriend in LA would really love to grab a cup of coffee. Neither of whom I
will see any time soon. I dropped plans
with multiple friends who by good fortune were supposed to be visiting San
Francisco this weekend.
I rarely make plans for more than seven days in the future.
And I have a love-hate relationship with all of it. After
all, I would not have my fabulous Swedish friend had I not been a traveler, but
that very same traveling prevents me from being a good friend.
At this point, I am aware that I am dancing around the hard,
cold, somewhat anguishing, real truth.
I know the real truth.
But whether to share the real truth, heart on my sleeve, with
the world…
Well I guess so….
The real truth is, I would give up this life up, in a
heartbeat, to curl up every night with the right person.
But coming home, night after night, to an empty bed, it is
soul crushing. So like most addicts, the fix dulls the pain. If the bed is in a
luxury suite overlooking the Mediterranean (as it was in December), the fact
that it is empty is not glaring.
My friend Kristin is convinced that since traveling is the
life I love, I will meet someone enjoying this life. Fifteen years into this
life, I know it is not true.
So, I started this year with a plan: seven weeks, in San
Francisco.
Work.
Enjoy the city.
But perhaps to be honest with myself, meet people.
Male people specifically.
Intelligent, stimulating, fun, enjoyable to hang out with,
single male people.
And yet, here I am, on a flight to Mexico.
Cool: As addictions go, it is not a bad one to have.
Stupid: Failure, this profound sense of failure.
Failure.
Failure.
Failure.
Failure.
Failure
Failure
Failure
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| Alone, over Mexico. |
