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One of the nice things about a journey is that it has a beginning and an end. From when the jaunty traveler walks out their front door, bags in hand, to the moment that weary wanderer stumbles back home stained and crumpled, bleary eyed and rejuvenated, replete with experiences.
It makes things simpler really. Easier to put together a photo album and write this is Day 1 all the way to the final image with its caption – Finis.
And yet…does the journey begin with the moment you walk out the door? Or does it start with the planning, the packing, the preparation? The prelude?
I suppose this journey starts in January, when Karen and I decided to take a river cruise down the Mississippi. To visit the grand old city of New Orleans.
We didn’t plan much. We booked a trip and watched the months go by.
And as we went to dinner at the home of some friends, we watched Katrina begin her rolling gait toward Louisiana and Mississippi. Watched at a distance as winds blew, levies fell, and water rose.
I don’t want to dwell on Katrina too much, since the nature of this story isn’t sorrow, but it would neglect the greater impetus of this story if she did not come up at all.
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Once we realized the level of devastation, we realized that as in 2001, we were going to take a different trip.
But the question was where? We discarded and discussed and decided France, the South that is.
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We scrambled for research and packed and then like all stories of journeys, we were on our way.Although, I realized as we were leaving, that thing I was trying to remember, it was to take in our trash can. Oh, well, I hoped it would still be there when we got home.
