I’m Jennifer Cross
Lapsed librarian, semi-reformed hellion, once-and-future athlete, and occasional misanthrope.
My feet are itchy in a way that an anti-fungal can’t cure and it isn’t always a good thing. I go when I have the money, I go when I don’t, and I go even when I’ve recently gone and have no good reason for going again so soon.
My preternaturally even-tempered husband has enabled our roving for almost 20 years, tempering my fits of planning with sensible questions like “Can we pay for it?” and “Will we get fired?”.
While completely spoiled by airline lounge access, my (almost perfect) son tries to communicate in the local language upon arrival wherever he goes. Oh, and he’ll eat anything.
In these, and many things, I’m fortunate beyond all reckoning.
- Being anywhere but Chicago
- Drinking in pubs with my husband
- Pretending that I live in the place I’m visiting
- Eating enough to be sorry about it later
Like selling everything we owned and moving to Caracas, Venezuela as it was collapsing under a dictator who has said that the food shortage could be solved by Venezuelans eating less.
Not our best decision ever, and I don’t regret it a bit.