J and I have just realized with a shock that it has been two full years since we have traveled anywhere foreign. "It's been two years since foreign?" I squawked, foregoing proper sentences because I was in the middle of the usual punishing routine he has me on in the gym.
That last trip was to J's childhood fantasy land, Hong Kong. (For some reason, he fibbed in kindergarten that he was going away to Hong Kong on vacation. He achieved much coolness until his teacher happened to ask his mother about it and all was revealed.) As an adult, J tripped around there with plainly childlike glee. One of the best afternoons was when we found a bench on the side of a street so steep it had stairs on it, and watched the city go by. J ate a custard pie, alarmingly good, while I scribbled in my notebook.
And all this time later we still do not have a destination picked out. The intervening two years have had a few little projects like selling a house, shipping belongings, quitting jobs and moving halfway across the world, and oh, I don't know why but all this seems to have kept us rather occupied.
Sigh. This is a sure sign that L.A. is no longer new, no? But that happened months and months ago; this is just that old old wanderlust again. J and I both need to be foreign together.