My personality has two modes. Extreme homebody and party girl. The homebody stays home to cook, clean and do writerly things. The party girl is at the bar at midnight on a Tuesday eating wings and drinking all the whiskey.
Something about winter brings out the worst of these extremes. I get into a cycle of not leaving the house for over a week, then going out and getting a little wild. Rinse and repeat. It’s this time of year I also think about getting away from it all.
I’ve been blessed with mom’s traveling genes and we were lucky to have gone up and down the east coast as well as Canada and Europe when I was a kid. The thrill of going to an airport at the crack of ass in the morning, the breath I hold at takeoff while clutching a goddess pendant, the smell of a new city, none of it gets old.
Decades later, Paris still calls to me. First taste of wine. First time mom needed my help (she didn’t speak French). First time seeing mom flirt a waiter and realizing she was a real person. Discovery of food and museums that amazed my cynical 14-year-old self. I want to go back and walk those street to bring those old memories to life, but could I really? The world has changed. Westerners are more paranoid than ever. Perhaps it’s better to dig out the old photo albums, call up my godmother and tell stories about that one time mom did that crazy thing. Yeah, it’s time to give her a call.