Three words inevitably are mentioned whenever someone learns I’m a travel writer, and that I’m getting divorced: Eat, Pray, Love.
I have indeed traveled a lot all throughout my divorce — it’s my job, after all — but unlike that oh-so-popular travel memoir, I have no neat theme to tie my travels together. I certainly have no pressing need to gain weight, to learn to meditate, or, have mercy, to fall in love. The places I’ve visited do not all start with the same letter, I do not expect Julia Roberts to play me in a movie someday.
And while I have not found travel especially “healing” — what does that mean, anyway? — I will admit that I have found the travel routine reassuring. Although my personal life is permanently altered, LaGuardia airport still smells like sour cream cheese and exhaust, I’m still taking my shoes off at security, and I know I’ll find the damned light switch in the hotel room eventually.
The photo above is one I snapped just after I left my divorce lawyer’s office for the last time. The pieces that follow are also snapshots — they’re nowhere close to a complete narrative of what happened, or what my life or my travels have been like since my personal drama began. They’re more like small portraits made by a person in distress. And they all appeared on Perceptive Travel.
- The Freedom Tower and My Divorce. I have been thinking about events that change life so completely that history – world history, or personal history, or both — becomes forever divided. There is the time before, and the time after.
- Bored by Old Faithful. Safety and fidelity are admirable qualities, in, say, a spouse. But these characteristics in combination, and when applied to a spectacle, are simply not terribly exciting.
- Hello 2013? I drank a champagne toast at midnight last night, and like everyone else who raised a glass, I wanted to believe that the bubbles would augur good.
- Divorce at the Driskill. “Congratulations, even though I know this is bittersweet,” my lawyer said.“I’m so happy,” I said, almost like the bride I was sixteen years and ten months earlier, at Mohonk Mountain House, another historic hotel that is also said to be haunted.
- [New] Revisiting Puerto Rico. It was indeed strange to go back to places I’d been in my previous existence as a wife. In part, because Blue Beach is still Blue Beach and my life has changed so much since I was last there that I don’t even have the same name.