“Be careful what you wish for, Missy.” I can hear my mother’s words reverberate in my head. Be careful what you wish for, be careful what you wish, be careful. Be careful. I was raised to be fearful. Somehow, the times, the burgeoning women’s movement, the rise of feminism, the advent of women as something other than playthings for men, allowed me to transcend my upbringing.
I stood there in front of the travel agency door looking at the poster. Travel! It said. And oh I wanted to go in and book a trip- to somewhere, anywhere I haven’t been before. To escape nostalgia. I wanted new and unfamiliar.
But in times of decision, I heard my mother’s voice. Over and over. Boys don’t like girls who…your future husband will want…, when you are grown and married…, when. . . It was like I never had a chance. And then I was forty with a husband and I didn’t give a fuck what he wanted. That was my sign to get out. I wished for a life other than what I had, and my mother’s voice came back to me, “Be careful what you wish for.”
I have been sincere with my wishes. They represent my core values. I didn’t need to be careful; they were front and center and required no deliberation.
I left my marriage. Not gleefully I recognized the tragedy and the failure it represented, but as the bible said, be ye not unequally yoked. We were unequal in every way. It was a disaster.
And here I was possessed of half of my retirement account and newly paid-off credit cards. I went in. A bell tinkled with the movement of the door. The woman at the front desk seemed surprised and I said as much.
She said, “We don’t get much foot traffic.”
I said, “I need a trip to somewhere I’ve never been. A place most people don’t go. A place where I can lose myself in the novelty of moving through unfamiliar streets.”
She snapped her fingers and said, “I have just the place for you. And we have a promotion going on. It’s quite the deal. Free airfare if you book The Budapest Hotel.”
I paused for a second and said, “I’ll take it. Do I need a visa? Travel papers other than a passport?” I didn’t even know what country Budapest was in. I knew nothing. It was perfect.
“Yes, but it’s pro forma. We can take care of it here. Just fill out some online forms and voila!”
An hour later I had everything I needed to leave for Hungary the following Tuesday.
I didn’t second guess myself, oddly enough. I strode into my boss’s office and told him I needed five weeks off beginning Tuesday and he said no. So I said, “I quit.” And he said, “Now woah, wait a minute…” but he wouldn’t relent and neither would I.
I was sitting on the plane, in first class no less due to an upgrade for the number of weeks I had reserved a room at The Budapest Hotel. It took nearly all my retirement account to reserve the suite. But I didn’t care. Maybe I’d care in 20 years, but not now.
The flight attendant brought me a glass of crisply cold champagne, a finger bowl, and a warm towel. The juxtaposition of the temperatures and the textures was sublime. I handed her the used towel and she took the bowl. I was left with nothing but the bubbly and my thoughts and I penned this.
I think this trip will be transformative. I’m going to keep this journal and document my deepest feelings. The ones I’ve always shied away from because of Mother’s voice in my head.
W. Va. Fur and Root 