Lately I've been having a bit of an identity crisis. Somewhere over the last years, it seems I lost my spirit. I miss the version of me that tramped all over Greece, jumped in the Hearst Castle pool, drove to New Mexico and camped on the red rocks and looked at the stars. My old wanderlust has seized me and I dream of adventure. I fantasize about renting a cottage in the Vermont woods in the deep of winter and exploring the countryside by snow-shoe, writing a memoir next to a crackling fire at night. I fantasize about renting a cottage in Cape Cod or in Mystic or in Maine, riding a bicycle down to the wharf to see fishermen unload lobsters and eating crab in pubs with newly-found friends. I dream about owning a canal-side pied-a-terre in Amsterdam and coming home from the flower market with my arms full of blossoms to set before the open window. But my job, with two weeks a year of vacation, doesn't afford the life I used to live.

In my funk, this afternoon, I took a walk in China Camp on the trail that follows the coastline. It was an insanely beautiful day, and as I looked out at the white sailboats dotting the bay, I played a mental game and pretended I was in Santorini. It was amazing how believable it was. The chaparral and trees look very much like those in Greece, as does the shore. Below, in the old China Camp fishing village (now a ghost town), the pier juts out into the sea and an old wooden fishing boat is anchored beside it. I breathed in deeply and thought about how relaxing it was to be in Greece and that later I would go into the village and have souvlaki and retsina mixed with 7-Up and rent a moped.

I plan to move my desk to the window in my bedroom later this week, so I can look at the trees and create a nook to write and pretend I am in exotic locales. It will sustain me until I have the means to jet to a Montana horse ranch.

 

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