I have lived through 21 Virginia winters. For 21 years I have known, for the most part, what my December, January and February will look like. I know that it won’t snow on Christmas and that the roads will ice over a few times in January. I know that no matter how sunny the day is, the bare branches still beg for their missing leaves. I know not to pay any heed to the happy chirping of birds; their singing is as misleading as the sun’s rays. Whether by the sea or in the mountains, I’ve always known that I will only ever be able to stand 21 Virginia winters.
As soon as I graduate this May, I want to leave Virginia. I want to leave Charlottesville, and then I want to leave Gloucester. It shouldn’t take me long. I think I’m going south, so from here, I can get to North Carolina in four hours. I think. How fast do I need to get where I’m going? And how far do I need to go?
I want to go somewhere. I have a few different somewheres in mind. The first one looks like Charleston. I’m a waitress in a nice restaurant. I write for a local newspaper. I’ll save up my money and take off a few months from work. I’ll travel. From Charleston, I can go to all of my other somewheres. They look like Italy and Greece and South Africa and India — or even states I’ve never visited: Texas, California, Arizona, Colorado.
In my mind, these somewheres are magnificent. They’re soul-soothing and breath-taking and awe-inspiring. For a writer with waitressing dreams, they even seem attainable. These magnificently attainable somewheres are still very young, though, for only recently have I come to the realization of how soon I need a “somewhere” after “here.”
For most of my life, I have shied away from the idea of travel. When I was very young I loved the thrill of it: the planes, boats and cars. Of course, my family rarely ventured farther than the sandy banks of various east coast states. But even then, I reveled in the experience of packing and unpacking, of waking up early and staying up late — just because you were someplace different.
As I grew up, I started to hate airports. I got bored in cars. Ferries made me anxious. And no matter what fabulous Caribbean vacation my mother had planned for us, I really just wanted to be home.
But the past four winters have crept slowly into my heart — alternatively warming and chilling my heart with each passing weather front. More coats, hats, gloves, scarves and boots have exploded in my closets. Charlottesville winters are even more confusing than Gloucester ones. They teach you that even when roads ice over, you can walk anywhere you need to be — and fall just as hard on the sidewalk as a car may spin out on the road. Charlottesville winters have introduced me to my two greatest joys: soy lattes and wine consumed on a couch.
Yesterday, as I was walking home, I felt a warm breeze lift a piece of my hair. I couldn’t pinpoint the origin of the moving air, but I’m positive it was real. I smiled, thinking about all the possibilities of a Virginia spring. And then, I almost started to cry. Because when you run away to somewhere, you have to leave here. And I really love it here.
I have cultivated two homes in Virginia. I have loved and hated them, and in return they have forced me to live through their winters. They have taken me in, and I think if I let them, they’d allow me to stay forever. This is why I must go.
I want to go somewhere. From the safety of February I can dream of somewhere warm and far, far away. In my messy college house, I can dream up new lives for myself. Right now, I can’t wait to hit the border. I can’t wait to say goodbye to 21 Virginia winters.
Do I need an actual place that fits my dreams of somewhere? Or is the dreaming just enough? I fear that I might have to answer these questions in March or April. It’s scary and exciting, and it’s sad and wonderful. Most importantly, though — it’s happening. I think I can finally say that when I have to leave, I’ll be kind of ready to go. For even if somewhere doesn’t work out, I’ll always have Virginia to return to.
Connelly’s column runs biweekly Wednesdays. She can be reached at c.hardaway@cavalierdaily.com.
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