Although spring break just ended, allow me to time travel momentarily back into the cold, merciless weeks that were winter break. It was during those weeks when I embarked on a spontaneous, and very memorable four-day drive from south-central New Mexico to Washington, D.C. For what it stole in gas, the trip made up for in interesting anecdotes.
On the first night of the drive, my dad — my sole travel partner — and I got caught in an ice storm in west Texas, just east of the Mexican border. We were forced to detour southbound — adding 400 miles to our trip — in an effort to avoid the treacherous Route 10. As we drifted, white-knuckled, down the icy road, the inclement weather refused to let up, and we resolved to spend the night in the seemingly abandoned Sanderson Inn of Sanderson, Texas.
In the morning, we walked over to the main building of the small motel to thank the owner for having us and to check out. This was the South, though, so the conversation couldn’t possibly be limited to polite civilities. We ended up essentially swapping life stories with a total stranger. The details of it all have since become a blur, but I’d be hard-pressed to forget one thing the owner, Sal, said.
“I moved here five months ago,” he started. Sal paused, and then, sighing happily, confessed, “I’m 44 years old, from Central Kansas, and this is the first place I’ve ever lived that really feels like home.”
At first, I was completely taken aback. This one-stoplight town, 25 miles from the Rio Grande and 145 minutes driving time from the nearest stand-alone Prada store — Prada Marfa, look it up — was someone’s home, sweet home?
It wasn’t so much the location that baffled me — I’d only spent a day and a half driving through the seemingly abandoned Texan countryside and had already fallen in love with the desolate roads and rocky tableaus. Rather, I was surprised at how significant this move from one area of farmland to another was for Sal. I wondered, how different was the rural Kansas compared to someplace a mere two states south?
I guess it’s because I’d always been someone who thought my home was on the road. I thought in order to be happy, I needed to — please pause while I puff my chest — expand my horizons and see the unseen. But it struck a chord when I listened to a stranger tell me, in the middle of the forsaken Texan desert, that this, right here, was all he ever needed. It made me realize all my long-held notions about always needing to be on the move in order to be happy were, actually, pretty wrong.
This week, I revisited this anecdote because of its relevance to my ongoing struggle with FOMO — or fear of missing out, for our less lingo-savvy readers. As I found myself trolling social media after returning from spring break, I couldn’t help but compare my experience to the ones pictured on my screen. Social media has a way of convincing you what you wear isn’t quirky enough, where you go isn’t exotic enough and how you travel isn’t chic enough.
But running my mind back to that short conversation I once had in a West Texas desert, I found some kind of solace in Sal’s words. Here I was, comparing my service-based, quasi-alternative spring break to the tropical jaunts of others, internally debating whether I had just as great a time. Whether it was because of Instagram or this off-brand strain of FOMO, I was wasting my time. I was re-thinking an experience I knew I had enjoyed and worrying what others thought of it instead.
I’ve resolved instead to take a page from Sal’s playbook and appreciate my situation, even without a change of scenery. Travel is admirable, and new experiences are commendable. But perhaps in my mode of moving, exploring and expanding I’ve overlooked the simple pleasure of staying put.
Mary’s column runs biweekly Thursdays. She can be reached at m.long@cavalierdaily.com.
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