“I’m a wanderer at heart,” she said furtively, hands covering a wicked little laugh.
At the age of 71, Rosalee confessed to me that she’s kind of waiting for her (dear) husband to kick the bucket so she can spend her time travelling instead of holding down the fort.
“I know what you mean,” I confessed. Not really about waiting for my beloved to die, but definitely about the travel bug. There is a whole little underground of women out there who are afraid to admit that they enjoy travelling alone, without constraints of any kind, alone to enjoy their own company.
“I went to Milan last week,” a middle aged friend confessed to me at the grocery store recently. “I mean, I could do what I wanted, eat where I wanted, linger where I wanted. It was such a change from having to accommodate everyone else….but please don’t tell anyone I said that. I love my family.”
Oh, I wouldn’t dare.
Of course she loves her family. The alternative of being entirely alone doesn’t appeal to any of us, really, but freedom does. I can relate to that.
I’ve got a collection of names of women from this podunk region who secretly travel … alone. If you lived here, you’d know why they have to be underground about it, and why their travels are always told in whispers and covert glances.
The world is not as tolerant as some would like to think, alas.