Home, Wherever It Lies

Wanderlust is a chronic disease.

Trust me, I write about them all the time for my day job. With few exceptions, you can only manage a chronic illness or hope to slow its symptoms, but you cannot carve it out like a tumor. 

I have a laundry list of comfortable places in Nashville - nice apartment in quiet neighborhood close to happening entertainment areas, several nights a week at friendly gym, Wednesday night beer get-together, occasional Thursday night meet-up, friends who run, two jobs and a bucket of freelance work I can tap regularly. That should give me a sense of home.

But it doesn't. With all that, I can't shake the feeling that some other place would fit better. That should not be taken as a dig on the people I've met here. Most are good, honest and loyal. I couldn't have been luckier on that front. 

The risk of coming to Nashville was essential. All the job offers I had in Ohio were safe - government jobs with high pressures and low rewards - this was a longshot. All the second-guessing I did never changed the fact that when they offered, I had to go.

After taking that bet once, I'm not as afraid anymore. 

Now, with a decent job in Nashville - the liquor store provides some extra cash, although much goes back into stocking my cabinet - I can't just go. I can't act like my sister, throw away everything in one town and split for the coast. She still hasn't recovered. That's why moving to Montana is prohibitive; it's beautiful, but almost a  Third World country. Only the super-rich and the poor can live there.

That's what makes Denver attractive. Big cities mean better cities and more jobs; this one has four seasons, environmentally friendly attitudes, a rail line and easy access to the mountains. 

I'm not saying I have plans to go. But it's hard to shake the feeling that I might have to, just to know. Wanderlust has deep roots, and it cannot be satisfied with an occasional pruning.