From 43 to 41

(Disclaimer: Maybe it’s the time of year, but I’m feeling a bit ramble-y these days. You’ve been warned!)

…

It’s August. And August, around here, is synonymous with vacation.

For some people, August began back in June. This is the case of one of my students, who is 18. As soon as school was out, he was at his family’s home at the beach. “We’ll talk in September,” he always says to me, and that’s got to be one of the most frequent phrases you’ll hear this time of year.

And for other people, August begins in July. Specifically, Fridays in July.

I don’t tend to notice it starting, because I’ve always worked on Saturdays. But if I happen to go out on  Friday around noontime, I can feel this sort of crackling energy in the air. People all around me have harried looks on their faces and seem to be in a great hurry. Cars are zooming by a little faster than usual. I start to hear the tell-tale sound of car trunks (or boots!) opening and slamming shut.

Ah, that’s right. It’s Friday.

On Friday afternoons and evenings, one must avoid the supermarket at all costs. This is where the heat and the hurry go to people’s heads. What may have ordinarily been a quick exchange of words about one’s place in the checkout line suddenly escalates to a fierce battle. There is yelling. There is exaggerated complaining about completely unrelated matters. You may hear an epithet or two, an appeal to various holy figures.

I choose to stay home and make do with what’s in the fridge.

Then, on Saturday, when going out for a walk I encounter an empty city, a ghost town. Dust, heat, oppressively humid air, deafening cicadas. Shops start closing early, or close for the whole weekend. Those shopkeepers who must stay open peer out forlornly from their shop windows.

I observe all of these goings-on from my darkened apartment, while sipping on a cold beer and eating unhealthy quantities of watermelon.

Some evenings I’ll go out for a drive with my friend and we’ll find, to our delight, that there are parking spaces everywhere. It feels like the city is all ours. We are inspired to sing gleeful songs and fantasize about it being like this all year round.

By Saturday night, all of my neighbors’ windows are closed and locked, the shutters drawn. “Hey! Is there anybody in the building?” I call out on the balcony, purely to embarrass my friend. Nobody answers, of course. And to think it’s not even August yet.

On Sunday, the few who had to work late on Saturday take off for the day. The silence deepens.

And then August arrives. All I have to say about that is the art supply shops close for the entire month.

I admit, vacation is all I can think about right now. But not because I can’t wait to join the millions of people sizzling away on the crowded beaches (dear God no). I’m just excited about the traveling, and the new scenery.

In a couple of days, I’ll be changing latitudes, from 43° to 41°. It may not seem like that much. But I swear that you can feel them as you travel southward. The landscape changes, the names change, the accents change.* The pace slows down considerably.

And then something else happens. I start getting all these ideas.

Lately I’ve been wondering: what is it about travel and inspiration? Is it the physical movement? Is it that strange phenomenon of leaving yourself behind as you close the door to your home? Something about brain synapses being rearranged? Or is it something simpler, something having to do with seeing new and unusual colors, or with breathing different air?

Eh, who knows? I suppose all that matters is that you remember to pack a notebook.

_{*If you are a dialect geek like me and want to travel through Italy by dialects you can watch this silly video. And you’ll also get a taste of what’s going on in the supermarkets here these days.}

COMMENTS: Am I crazy for thinking you can feel changes in latitude? OK, I suppose I am. But have you ever noticed that more ideas come to you when traveling?

Do you ever use travel as a way to access new ideas and inspiration?