Photo by Greg Rodgers

Finding cheap domestic flights is perhaps even more of a dark art than getting a good deal on international flights for me lately. I’d rather pay a hefty sum to cross the Atlantic or Pacific than the same amount to bound across a few only semi-interesting states. At least a continent change is worth selling blood, plasma, and bonus internal organs to cover the ticket.

Actually, if I had a halfway efficient vehicle, I probably wouldn’t even fly domestically. A temporary romance with gloved goons in airport security just has a way of taking the magic out of a Fear-and-Loathing-style roadtrip somewhere west of here.

Unfortunately, when I do fire up my aging, V8 5.0-liter engine, Arabs increase oil production (and high five), baby seals scream in Canada, and an iceberg melts in Antarctica. I may as well take a 747; our carbon footprints are roughly the same.

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People often inaccurately associate vagabonding with vacation-style travel, where the objective is to accumulate 2,000 photos of forgettable landmarks and beach horizons on disk, never to be looked at again.

With the average, hard-working American being entitled to only two weeks of vacation per year, often little time is left for the most exciting part of travel: meeting people.

Even wild orangutan encounters and bungee jumping don’t compare with the sheer thrill of meeting a stranger, connecting with them, and forging a friendship or romance. Hands down, this is the only reason I continue to pound my passport — and bank account — into submission every year.

Perhaps that’s what makes remaining at  home for a long time so difficult.

I’ve been fortunate enough in the first nine days of 2012 to meet some interesting and creative people. I knew they existed here in my little hometown, however, finding them among the hordes was never an easy task while visiting home.

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Upstairs, a spent Christmas tree sits quietly in the darkness; all the carefully wrapped gifts beneath having long been looted, and now even the tree itself has transformed from joy to burden as someone has to take it down.

Orion is dazzling just outside of my door up in a crispy, winter sky. An occasional satellite arcs quietly across the void before it is overtaken by soft, gray snow clouds. A hint of orange means that Asia is finished with the sun and will soon be sending it over.

Jet lag has my circadian timers in complete disarray, so in a few hours I will begin to hear the sounds of fossil fuels being burned so that time can be exchanged for money to buy more fossil fuel. Somewhere on a different continent, an Arab will dance with one of his wives.

I will hear the squeaky brakes of the postman making his rounds, depositing Christmas bills and offers for shiny things into people’s mailboxes; both make a nice sound hitting the bottom of the recycling bin.

It’s that magical time of year again: the time when I sit at my family’s place in Lexington, Kentucky, USA, with blinking eyes wondering how in the hell I got here, and more importantly, how I’m supposed to squeeze out something meaningful to compete with the blogging masses’ “Best of 2011″ and “2011 Summary” posts.

Time for reminiscence later. First, I have an idea…

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