I don’t mind being relatively poor these days as it means fewer distractions and more of a focus on writing. But I do miss the travel.

I’ve secured HE’s beautiful old 19th Century apartment in Cannes for next May (7 rue Jean Mero, third-floor walkup…the place Ann Hornaday and I shared for a few years) but I’m not entirely sure I even want to do Cannes this year. It doesn’t seem like much of a lineup, but then I haven’t really studied the situation. Telluride is the only keeper, the only essential.

Between the early ’90s and late 20-teens and especially from the early aughts onward I was always going somewhere. Starting in ’00 I flew each May to Europe (Paris, Cannes, Prague, London, Berlin, Munich, Tuscany, Rome), and over the last 13 or 14 years (starting in 2010) to Telluride each and every year.

Along with occasional journeys to NYC, Key West, Virginia and Washington, D.C., Vietnam (2012, 2013 and 2016), Germany, Switzerland, Spain, Morocco, San Francisco, Seattle, Hawaii, Mexico, Monument Valley, Park City, etc. Plus a terrific one-off to Buenos Aires and Mar del Plata in Argentina.

Not to mention random long-hauls and hiking trips in California (Palm Srings, Sierras, Joshua Tree, Yosemite, Death Valley, Santa Barbara, Los Olivos, Big Sur, Mill Valley, Guerneville, Mendocino) when the mood struck.

Living with a constant sense of expectation and adventure does wonders for the soul. Keeps you going, keeps you alive. I realize that I sound entitled and spoiled to a certain extent. How many people have travelled this much over two or three decades and experienced this much intrigue and arousal? I only know that I’ve adored this feast of living, this seemingly endless banquet…course after course and episode after episode for such a long and wondrous time…and that I’m very sorry that I can no longer afford to live this way any longer. But at least the memories are many.

The bottom line is that I’m deeply grateful that I had what I had when I had it.