Yesterday the financial machine groaned back to life. With squeaking gears and a collective sigh, America’s work force plopped both feet over the edge of the bed and headed back to work. After weeks of easy livin’ (Mom’s Christmas trifle, the thrill of gift giving, a drunk New Year’s smooch in Ricky’s Mexican cantina, lazy afternoons spent reading Kerouac’s Big Sur) getting back to business came quickly and rudely.
For me it was particularly difficult as I sat in the back of a crammed bus edging slowly towards the U.S. border on the way back from Mexico – sulking in the mistake of a poorly timed plan. But after several sweaty hours of minimal progress, a few arguments with the “officials” rushing us to the border, my passport was stamped and I was back on U.S. soil – sunburned, salty and thankful that my brother lived in San Diego.
Eight hours later I jogged into the office. My feet, cut up from navigating barnacle encrusted rocks, slipped back into soft boat shoes. My eyes quickly grew accustomed to a bright LCD screen. And as lunchtime rolled around, I felt an overwhelming wave of nostalgia for road-side tacos, morning spot checks and the hours spent in unfamiliar places with good people – Ma & Pa, bro-dawgs, my lady.
But the adventure-hangover doesn’t last long. I don’t allow it to. “One fast move or I’m gone” says Jack Kerouac in Big Sur. So I make a quick break for the positive and as I start listening to new songs queued up in Spotify, my nostalgic day dreams begin to groove as a highlight reel and I feel inspired. Inspired by my fellow adventurers who break free from the ordinary. Inspired by the soundtracks that frame the peaks and valleys of adventure.