There’s something about crossing a political boundary, taking me outside of all the borders I’d been crossing within my own country, that gave it a wildcard quality. Becoming a guest of another country felt vulnerable and precarious.

It’d been nearly three weeks. Certainly not the longest I’d ever gone without, although I’m hesitant to admit what my record is. It’s quite shameful, really. The me of a decade ago would’ve denied it was possible.  

The first time is dense with delicious sensations, emotions, and a bit of apprehension. At least, it’s been that way for me. Afterward, there’s the undeniable poignancy that it will never again be the first time. That the thrill, the anticipation, the mystery will not ever reach the same heights. Not in the way it did when it was still unknown and fueled by fantasy.

I explained I was on vacation and planned to drive across the country, estimating I’d be in Canada about two months. That’s what prompted the blink and the pause. Which he followed up with, “But where are you going?”