A Case of Wanderlust.

Today Chris and I were watching The Brothers Bloom again. During the scene where Bloom steals an apple, Chris said, "That park is awesome."

"You've been there?" I asked.

"Yea, I've been there."

"Where is it?" I asked.

"It's in Prague." Which would make sense, as that's where this particular section of the movie is set.

I paused. Repeated in my head: Prague. "I want to go to Prague."

Image courtesy of here.

To be honest, I didn't even know what country the city is in. Google has since informed me that Prague is the capital city of the Czech Republic. But my initial ignorance of Prague's location has only reaffirmed this fact to me: I need to see the world.

The onset of my wanderlust has been a recent thing. In my younger years, I wasn't that interested in the world. And in many ways, I think I was afraid of what I would see.

When I was fourteen, my family flew out to Chicago. I remember visiting the Art Institute of Chicago, posing next one of the towering lion statues out front, majestic even though they were crusted green with oxidization. We visited Buckingham Memorial Fountain at night, watched it light up spectacularly with different colors.

I don't remember being that impressed. I liked it OK, but growing up in Vegas, you get used to spectacles. Vegas has an Eiffel Tower, a Statue of Liberty, a volcano, a bi-hourly pirate attack; and artificial as all these things may be, they still manage to cheapen the overall effect of the originals.

I was impressed, however, by the bums.

Maybe it was because I didn't spend much time in downtown Las Vegas, but it seemed that the Windy City had more than its fair share of the homeless.

Homeless people in Vegas are often charming, will chat you up. They look tan and leathered. They say, "God bless you. Now you have a good day, now," when you give them some money. They might thank you by doing a dance. They hold signs that say things like: "Father killed by ninjas. Need $$$ for karate lessons." Maybe most of the time they are just too blitzed out of their minds to appear that sad.

But in Chicago, not only were the homeless more numerous, they were more pitiable as well.

Bums there sat in wheelchairs, one leg or even both clearly missing. Some leaned against walls, or huddled over, knees to chest, one hand holding a cup that they slowly clinked from side to side. They were everywhere, and they looked so openly dejected, and it frightened me. I wanted to give money to enough of the homeless people we passed on the street that my dad finally told me to cut it out, that at this rate we would never get anywhere.

But the whole thing was uncomfortable to me. I remember that whole trip as being overshadowed by a greater realization that the world was a bit uglier than I had previously thought.

Then, the summer after I graduated from high school, I made a trip to Boston and New York with my brother Brandon, his wife, and my younger sister. Before going, I was apprehensive of visiting another big city.

To my surprise, however, I loved the city. I loved its life, its ceaseless pace.

I loved when it surprised me, with its sheer size, the endless number of people packed onto each street, the delicious food. One night we headed back to our hotel after midnight, after going to the jazz club, Birdland. I don't know why, but I was surprised to find the subway car empty but for us; tired and slaphappy, I did a Russian-style jig around the car.

I think I was afraid, at one time, of seeing the world, of facing the reality of it.

But now, I see: the world guarantees I will be surprised, but I am the one who decides if it's good, or if it is bad; if it is beautiful, or if it is ugly.

I want to see the world.

I want to be surprised.

Now, around people like Chris who have been all over Europe or spent months at a time living outside the United States, I am envious. But I am hopeful. I'll get my turn.