This brief travel essay was published in March, 2012, in the online journal "The Whistling Fire"

I stand in the calm of my kitchen at home, now that the whistle of the teakettle has been silenced. Although I am awake, I am not yet sharp in my mind. Tea will help: the momentum of the boil flings itself at my sleepiness even as it slows when I lift the kettle from the burner, tip it, pour water from it over the teabag. Steam spirals, like prayers on the wind.

After a minute, I regard the tea bag with still-unfocused eyes. It lies like debris on the surface of the water. The tea leaves are dry. I pinch the square tag hanging over the edge of the mug, take up the slack in the string, tease the bag against the water. Slowly, it sinks and the water begins to color. Slowly, the flavor rises.

It is a first-thing ritual, tea. The house is still; I live here alone with just the dog. Darkness backdrops the this morning, now that summer is over and the fall equinox is past. The edge of the sandy-brown countertop where I lean is stone-cold through my T-shirt. The wood floor has sapped the coziness of flannel bedsheets from my feet. Autumn is making itself at home. This mug of tea is welcome.

I have chosen a fragrant herbal tea instead of the usual black-with-milk because I'm not feeling my best. Perhaps it will comfort my throat, raw from coughing much of the night. Wafting through the silence and half-light comes the smell of mint and chamomile.

These leaves have traveled far to reach my kitchen. I wonder where they have come from. Japan, maybe. Or maybe China, or Sri Lanka. They grew on bushes in the sun and rain and wind of far-away hillsides. They were harvested by people speaking foreign tongues, thrust into shoulder bags with no notion of destination. Which leaves, exactly, would arrive in my home, flavor my boiling water, sooth my aching throat? There were sellers and buyers, tea factories and retailers, shippers and truckers involved here.

With my left hand, I heft the mug by its handle; with my right, I cup it. Both hands raise the warm ceramic, and I bow my head to the edge and drink, the tea now cool enough for a sip if I breathe across it first. I close my eyes against its humidity.

It is but a simple mug of tea, yet here I am, wondering about those other people halfway around the world. Perhaps they are picking another crop of leaves, or tmdging a dirt path homeward vsith a full bag. Hauling the goods—on their backs, in a truck, on a ship. Or maybe making dinner, making love, doesn't matter. They are there, I am here, and we are linked.

They say the world has become small. But to me, it's a long way from here to there, and that's the appeal. As I bend my head over my mug, my awakening gaze lowers to my chilly feet. These feet of mine, I muse, how they love to go places.

Wondering what's out there fuels my curiosity, makes me want to set out, away from home. Wanderlust pushes, insistent, relentless, until I am moved to find a way to breathe the air somewhere else. It could be at the coffee shop in toym or at another end of the world. Either way, there's something to be discovered every place, every time. Finding out what each new day has in store is what gets me out of bed, even in the early dawn after a restless night.

My most recent journey has barely ended, but I wiggle my toes and wonder: where will my feet go next?