Things Unexplored

I love this question: What is your favorite place in the whole world?

I never have a good answer. I always wish I did.

Would it be the beach in Wilmington, North Carolina, where I first found the mysteries of the ocean? I was certainly at peace being jostled and cradled by the shoulder-deep waves, and my equilibrium mimicked the swaying in my body as I fell asleep that night.

Or maybe it would be a cafe in Paris. Which cafe though? I hadn’t stayed long enough to become attached to one spot, only the feeling of sitting at a sidewalk table reading a book as the sun helped relax my tired feet.

I did also love the metro in Paris. I discovered I loved the feeling of riding on trains to zoom from one area to another, again, a book in hand. But then again, I later realized I feel that way on all trains — none in a specific place.

Or there was the cabin where my husband and I went for our honeymoon far in the mountains near Las Vegas, New Mexico. The cabin was cozy and cool in the middle of the summer forest, and a babbling creek ran right in front of it. Best of all, there was no cell service.

But none of these, or my other various favorite experiences, are really the place itself. Each was merely new and unseen to me. You could call it wanderlust, or restlessness, but it’s something different to me: I have a passion for things unexplored.

Something about being in an unfamiliar, yet calming, place gives me satisfaction. A measurable step of progress in my repetitive life. Experiences I’ve already had feel a bit worn-in to me sometimes. I might like to return, but it’s never the magic it was the first time.

I must find a new stretch of beach, a new cafe, another train, another quiet spot in the woods — there are so many hidden places that I have yet to find.

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