travel.

There was a time when I boarded a plane at least once a week. Yes, it was for business, and no, I didn’t particularly look forward to it, but, regardless, frequent travel became part of the rhythm of my life. Unsurprisingly, it spilled over from business to pleasure, as reward points took me around the world and back again. When a friend suggested a trip, I was always first in line to buy my ticket, regardless of the cost. More travel meant more of everything I loved  – friends, food, shopping, drinking, adventure – and it was easy to ignore the consequences. After all, you can’t put a price on experience. (Let’s pour one out for the lies I liked to tell myself.)

These days, I rarely travel anymore. I lost my status with US Air, Hilton, and National, my reward points ran out months ago, and my carry-on is tucked away in the laundry room instead of standing at attention in my closet. Most of the time, I don’t miss my life on the road. But sometimes – like right now, for instance – it comes on like a fever. Over the past few weeks, I’ve nearly booked B&B’s in the Berkshires, Cape Ann, and Vermont. I’ve researched writing retreats and meditation retreats. I’ve contemplated road trips. My need to get away grew so strong that I even started opening the JetBlue deal emails that annoyingly pop up in my Gmail every morning. In other words, I was desperate.

Somehow, I held out. I consoled myself with the upcoming travel I’ve already booked for the holidays. I put away my credit card. But still, the fever raged. It was about this time that my husband mentioned a park he’d recently discovered near Lechmere. He asked if I knew about it, or the new footbridge that connects it to Charlestown. No, I said, we never go to that part of town.  (It’s true. Despite having a combined 20+ years of living in Boston, there are so many parts of the city we never visit. I think I’ve been to Charlestown maybe once?  Same for Southie.  We never go to the Waterfront, or to Allston, or Chinatown, or the North End, or Beacon Hill. Honestly, we rarely leave our little corner of Cambridge, unless it’s for work. We’re...kind of lame.)

And so, a minimalist idea was born. We decided to be tourists in our own town, spending a day walking around our city in much the same way we’d explore somewhere new. We rolled out of bed, put on comfy clothes and walking shoes, and headed out without an agenda, in search of adventure. Along the way, we took photos, stopped to eat and drink at new-to-us cafes and restaurants, and Googled the landmarks we happened to stumble upon. (As it turns out, we have a piece of the Berlin Wall in Cambridge, and an 18^th century ship docked at the Navy Yard. Go figure.)

It was a surprisingly great day. Despite the fact that we were only a few miles from home, it felt as if we had really gone away and explored a new city. Better still, we did it without accumulating plane tickets, jet lag, or a pricey B&B bill, and (bonus!), we made it home in plenty of time to feed the cats their dinner.

Have you ever played tourist in your own town? If so, were you surprised by what you discovered?