No, Sit, Stay

So I'm heading to Blowing Rock this summer.  And Charlottesville.  And Harrisonburg.  And Cincinnati.  And Cullowhee.  And Oberlin.  And Indianapolis.  And Bloomington?  And, um, Fairbanks.  And all before August is out.

I mean, what?

See, I'm not a traveler.  I like to dig my heels in, or cool my heels, or whatever it is you do with your heels while drinking gin and tonics (gins and tonic?) on the porch.  Never peregrinate when you can percolate, is what I always say.

Actually what I always say is "where's my damn coffee," but really, who's listening?

Apparently not me to me, because I've somehow ended up with the travel schedule of a dedidcated schlepper.  And this isn't even counting the upcoming autumn's trips to Chicago, Ann Arbor, Minneapolis, Eau Claire, Williamsburg (twice), Chicago and Charlottesville (retreads), Asheville, and possibly Durham.

It's easy to say that I don't like traveling.  I dislike the disruptions, the airplanes, the unsettledness, the uncertain wireless access, the terror of new highways, the harndess and softness of other people's mattresses.  I enjoy having a blanket excuse to buy as much coffee I want, but that's pretty much the extent of my solace.

Or is it?  Would I really do something over and over again if I didn't, at some perverse level, enjoy it? What if the truest accounting of our tastes isn't our mouths, but our feet?  Because here I am again, telling you I'll stay as I'm walking out the door.