I have a love-hate relationship with travel.

The Love part, of course, is because I love to do it. I studied abroad in college and it broke open my world. I’ve flown around the country for friends’ weddings. I can find so much peace in a good long train ride, so much adrenaline and joy in the wheels-up moment on a plane. There's so much excitement in the unfamiliarity of a new place, and I think I’ll crave that excitement for my whole life.

The Hate part, then, is because travel is a commitment—and sometimes it feels like everyone has made that commitment except for me. According to Instagram, and all the thinkpieces about traveling now before I get “old” and have commitments, I need to be out there now, in the big wide world, exploring before real life really gets in the way. But I don’t always have the money or the time or the energy. Instead of jet-setting, I’m paying rent, and hovering over those Instagram photos, and wondering if I’ll ever be able to afford the life I dream about. If I’ll ever be able to put in the vacation time, pay for a ticket, and have the ability to just go.

Wrapped up in this love-hate relationship are two realities. The first is—I could travel. I could prioritize this hunger of mine. I could direct my income that way, structure my days off differently. It would take work, sure, but at the end of the day, I could do that work. I could get up and go the way I dream of.

The second reality? The second reality is, I can be where my feet are right now. I live in the most diverse neighborhood of the biggest city in America—there’s a world of options right in front of me, new streets and backroads to get myself lost in. I can have loukoumades for breakfast and soup dumplings for lunch and Mexican for dinner and any number of drinks for a nightcap. I can walk to the waterfront or take a train to the mountains. I can head home to my beloved hometown beach. Or, I can dream about what’s to come—what state, what country, what sights, what sounds.

Travel is a wonderful thing. So is this moment, at home. Here are five songs for when that gnawing feeling of wanderlust makes you appreciate your home just a little bit more.

“Head Full of Doubt/Road Full of Promise” // the Avett Brothers

The line “Decide what to be and go be it” has driven so much of my adult life, and feels particularly apt when I think about the woman I want to be, and where I want her to come to life.

“Green” // Ben Rector

Ah, the call of the PNW. I’ve never spent any time out there. To those of you who live out there, know there’s a city-loving East Coaster at heart who really wants to know what color green Ben is talking about.

“Flamenco Sketches” // Miles Davis

In college, I was asked to describe how this song made me feel, and my answer was: cobblestones, fog, a smoky bar, a foreign city, and a night way later than I intended it to be. This song feels like going there.

“Blowin’ in the Wind” // Bob Dylan

This track is a strange one for this playlist. On the one hand, it makes me want to feel free and rootless, like the answers I want are all Out There beyond me. On the other hand, it’s one of my favorite songs to enjoy from the comfort of my bedroom, with windows open and the sun going down. A rare song that can make me feel both ways.

“Clarity” // John Mayer

This song wraps change, worry, comfort, ease, fear, and wonder up in one for me; it holds all those feelings whether I’m in my own apartment or crossing state lines in a rented car. Maybe it’s the only reminder I need that no stage of life is supposed to last forever.

Meet the Author

Melissa Warten

Melissa graduated Boston College in 2016 with a double major in English and philosophy. She loves Ultimate Frisbee, Hamilton, Harry Potter, and ice cream, and thinks most problems can be solved with a nap, an iced coffee and the right Spotify playlist. She hopes to work in publishing.

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Featured

The End of An Era: Saying Goodbye to Windrose

Hi friends,

Announcement (sounds so formal, doesn’t it?):

It's the end of an era.

I’ve decided that, after nearly 8 years of telling stories of navigating life, this season of Windrose is drawing to a close.

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Even Here: Words for When You're Wandering

When I was 22 years old, I visited the desert for the first time.

A metaphorical desert, if we’re getting technical.

I was fresh out of college, starry-eyed and eager to begin my post-grad life. I had big ‘ole me-centered dreams: a shiny, brag-worthy PR job in the music industry! An apartment with an exposed brick wall that (somehow) would fit an upright piano! A committed relationship with a kind, goofy man!

I got exactly none of those things.

To summarize an entire year’s worth of emotion: I was devastated.

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What is Home?

Late last night, I flew back into town after a week away, the city lights covering the Valley like a blanket of incandescent flowers. I’ve flown into Phoenix at least a dozen times at this point. Usually, I can identify a handful of landmarks, like my antenna-scarred South Mountain or the twinkling lights of the bridges spanning Tempe Town Lake.

Flying into Nashville, however, was always different.

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I Don't Live Here Anymore

I recently returned to Nashville for the first time since moving to Phoenix five months ago.

Before my reunion, I often said that the word “home” could apply to both Nashville and Phoenix. Nashville is my home. Phoenix is my home. I could find that home-sweet-home feeling in both cities.

During my 8 days back, I frequented my old haunts. The brickwalled coffee shop still serves the meanest mocha in town. The hillside winery still proves to be a worthwhile spot to sip away a sunny Sunday afternoon. The hip burger joint still offers a lovely evening to dine with friends, new and old. The lime-green Mexican restaurant on the corner of Whitebridge still feels like a queso-soaked refuge.

There were many “stills,” but there were changes, too.

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Why did you move?

A cardstock print sits propped against the lamp on my desk: a taupe watercolor swipe outlining a peakside Saguaro, the sun a tiny ring above. Beneath this minimalist illustration are these words in typeface: “I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert.”

I happened upon this notecard-sized print on the way out of a shop last weekend, after already having completed another purchase. It was the last print of its kind in the pile. I had to have it. I returned to the cashier: “This one, too.”

You see, this verse has been a thread weaving through my story, simple words spoken by a prophet long dead, a passage of comfort I’ve returned to again and again since my pilgrimage to the desert four years ago, when I inked a cactus on my wrist.

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The Good Old Days

Last week was National Margarita Day.

I did not, however, celebrate the holiday. Truthfully, I’ve yet to find THE Mexican place here in Phoenix. You know the one: gaudy decorations, cheap food, even cheaper margaritas.

But there’s a Mexican restaurant at the corner of Charlotte and Whitebridge in Nashville, TN.

You may have heard of it.

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Witching Hour (or, Fighting Off Demons at 3 am with a Box Cutter)

Between the hours of 3 - 4 am, I find myself awakened by nothing in particular. The room is silent. There is no sound outside. No loud car horns. No dogs barking.

I’m upset.

I wish it was something other than just me. Then I could stop it. Nothing is to blame. It feels like moments have passed since I closed my eyes. The moments of a long dreamless sleep last about 4 hours.

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10 Life Lessons This Cross-Country Move is Attempting to Teach Me

There are a few lessons life has attempted to teach me since my move — all things that I haven’t yet spiced up into a full essay, but deserve to be memorialized by my metaphorical pen nonetheless.

So I present a collection of lessons I’ve learned — and am still learning — in the last 3 months.

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What Will Your Life Look Like?

Tomorrow marks 3 months.

Three months here, sharing a zip code with Saguaros.

“So how is Phoenix?” a friend asked me over the phone as I sat on my balcony beneath glowing string lights, a pour of raspberry wine in my hand. The sun was setting, painting the eastern mountains with rosy swipes of redemption.

How has Phoenix been these last three months?

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What is it Trying to Tell You, if Only You’d Listen?

I went on a date recently. Two glasses of Riesling, pleasant conversation, and a perfectly amicable guy — it was an altogether fine evening.

However, I wasn’t interested in a second date.

Not because of any run-for-the-hills red flags. Not because I didn’t think he was cute. Not because we didn’t get along. I simply — wasn’t interested.

There’s no better way to explain it. No fear-based avoidance of the potential for a healthy relationship. No disdain for commitment that needs a heavy round of therapy to work through. Nothing deeper than the inner sense that a second date just wasn’t necessary.

But, I said yes to getting dinner again with him.

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The Other Side of Yes

I’m a No Girl.

In many ways, this is a good thing. I’m able to confidently decline invitations that disinterest me.

“Want to go whitewater rafting?” No thank you, I’m comfy right here on the bank.

“Want to do a shot?” No thank you, I’ll take my liquor with lime juice and Triple Sec, plz.

“Want to try this carrot cake?” No thank you, Harry, I can’t eat gluten.

“Want to go to Broadway?” No thank you, I’d prefer to go to bed.

In many ways, however, being a No Girl originates less from personal boundaries and more from fear. Fear and I happen to be pretty tight; we talk on the daily. Fear has been the primary consultant for many of my life decisions, in fact.

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A Song for Growth

A year ago, a friend of mine got a job at a well known tech company. He had been slogging through the interviews, and he finally got an offer. Obviously he deserved it. He was a hard worker, and his attitude for success and life was admirable to say the least. I knew he was beyond qualified.

But at the time, I was on a career path I couldn’t see myself being happy in. I had made the mistake of staying in the industry mainly for the money. Every month in the industry was a reminder of how much I did not want to stay. It created a nasty cycle of overthinking and career angst. Feelings of inadequacy and existentialism rooted themselves deep inside me. I couldn’t focus on anything and was utterly disconnected from the work I was doing.

I admit I wasn’t happy for him.

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Tuesday Tunes: Songs for Wander

“Head Full of Doubt/Road Full of Promise” // the Avett Brothers

“Green” // Ben Rector

“Flamenco Sketches” // Miles Davis

“Blowin’ in the Wind” // Bob Dylan

“Clarity” // John Mayer

Melissa graduated Boston College in 2016 with a double major in English and philosophy. She loves Ultimate Frisbee, Hamilton, Harry Potter, and ice cream, and thinks most problems can be solved with a nap, an iced coffee and the right Spotify playlist. She hopes to work in publishing.

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