Touring

There are many more places that I’m willing to visit than there are places where I’m willing to dwell. The latter category never exceeds three, but the former is essentially without borders. I’d go to most places, even if only for dinner. Dwelling is different. I’m not as evolved as the average modern American Homo sapien, therefore the bulk of what passes for acceptable to desirable to the majority, such as roads and long lines and miniature golf courses and that malignancy of malignancies, cookie cutter developments, turns my blood to a black oleaginous goop. I need to be in the wild or else I’m as miserable as a mangy coyote.

And I don’t mean as someone passing through like a loose balloon. I mean I like to live in the middle of “nowhere,” a designation for rural paradises that really only accurately applies to airports and to interstates and to chain hotel lobbies. Probably my longest running fantasy is a fishing shack sat down in a meadow with a view of rolling mountains spritzed…