A couple of days ago, I woke up to my brother's voice in my parent's hotel room. He'd called from Copenhagen to to FaceTime with my Mom. And as much as it truly was nice to hear his voice, the conversation stirred up an uncomfortable restlessness inside me.
I'd worked with a Scottish girl a few days prior at event in San Jose. We commiserated on what a special and unique and gratifying experience it is to spend more than a few weeks outside of one's home country. She loved California. I understood, and yet...
This lull after hosting shouldn't surprise me—I felt it after Marie, and Leslie, and Deanna, and every-single-other-friend/relative-who-has-visited-me-thus-far left. But still, I'm more rooted in Los Angeles than ever. I love my job, my house, and such ordinary comfort is so gosh darn unsettling. Oh, and it should be noted this is not the first time I'm reacting this way, nor the second, and no, not even the third. At this rate, I may very well struggle with a frustrating itch that causes me to seek out exceptional experiences for the rest of my freaking life. (I'm only partially mocking myself.) Please tell me I'm not the only one?P.S. To-do list as of late: a book club, international Meetup group, Habitat for Humanity project, and senior volunteer opportunity.
