the habit of being

We were in the Metro waiting for the Orange Line train, and there was a group of four college students paired off boy-girl, boy-girl. The closer pair were sitting on the platform in front of us with huge hiking packs - the sort of packs we used when we were traveling.

It was so strange because the packs were so clean, and they had those little airline tags on them, and these kids were so well-groomed and college-y.

It just didn’t seem right. They sat with their clean hiking packs and they talked about how dirty Mexico City was. This girl had been to some scuzzy South American cities, but had heard they were nothing compared to Mexico City, so she tried to avoid it. He concurred, pretentiously, having been there himself. She had glasses and a tank top and was from New Jersey, and he had a goatee and nose ring and a necklace with wooden beads that he fiddled with in a way that James found annoying.

“He was just doing it to get attention.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I can tell.”
(We discussed it in bed last night.)

It’s like, you can’t take a pack like that on a plane. It’s ridiculous. It’s cheating. It made me literally uncomfortable.

. . .

He wants to do it again. Traveling, I mean. Adventure. He wants a touring bicycle with paniers. He wants to travel like we traveled before, except in Europe. Except without me. Or maybe even with me, just without all that sickness and pain.

When he thinks of traveling he still thinks of adventure and excitement. I just think of the sickness and pain, the loss. I can’t imagine doing it again. I want Italy but I want a place to live too. I don’t like not having a home. I don’t like it at all. I don’t like not knowing where I’m going to sleep at night. I especially don’t like not knowing where I’m going to sleep at night when I do know that it won’t be anywhere comfortable, that I’ll wake up anxious and guilty.

. . .

On the train, there were these other people with a screaming baby. It wouldn’t shut up and it was really loud. They were a young couple with stroller, a few seats back. The father took the baby out of the stroller and it stopped crying for a minute, but then it bumped its head on the seat and started up again.

James pointed out that College Boy #2, who was wearing an Abercrombie tee-shirt, was currently engaged in the Unequivoclal Crotch Display, slouched in his seat with legs spread way out, for the benefit of College Girl #2, a blonde. Meanwhile, College Boy #1 was still playing with his beads.

. . .

When we got to our next stop, and sat down again to wait for the Red Line, James said he wished he were traveling.
“You couldn’t want to haul all that stuff around again,” I said.
“It’s a lot better than hauling one of those around,” he said, motioning toward the couple with the baby, who were waiting there too.

It was like someone slapped me. Again.