“Standing there on the embankment, staring into the current, I realized that—in spite of all the risks involved—a thing in motion will always be better than a thing at rest; that change will always be a nobler thing than permanence;”
– Olga Tokarczuk, Flights

Newton’s First Law of Motion: An object at rest will stay so…

unless acted on by a force. Push. Pull. Call. A whistle, deep in the night, striking a memory: This is the train to Glasgow… to Vienna, Budapest, New York, San Francisco. Suddenly, a heart thumps, lurches. Lungs gasp, strain, remember…

trailing up the mountains to Harissa, Caux; looking down at the Mediterranean, Lake Geneva, Como; the sun-spangled mist rising up Nuwara Eliya, containing every shade of light and gray…

An object, set in motion, will continue, constantly. So says Newton.

There is a Eurail map that has traveled, for years, folded and pressed, behind a passport, in a pouch with a zipper, with two Swiss francs, five Czech koruna, one British pound, miscellaneous euros and cents, and a 250 Lebanese Lira. And two creamy photos, a receipt: coffee at Paul’s. An unused ticket, just in case, for the Paris metro.

There are as many pencil marks on that map—and dreams—as there are stops on the green, purple, red routes crisscrossing the space—and space of possibilities—from Portugal to Turkey. An archeology of longings,

–Cinque Terre, Saint Petersburg, the Simplon tunnel to Venice…

–less for the destinations themselves—variable, infinite, magical, too numerous, beautiful, rich for any single existence—as for that existence; constant seeking. Being that person—a choice, a conscious decision—

who goes,

clutching a deeply creased map, a passport, some coins, and is rich and young and

whose heart thumps, lurches; lungs gasp, strain, at the sound of an incoming train, on the platform, heaving,

against inertia; the safe, swampy comfort of the known. And fear. The person who pushes and pulls and—Newton’s Second Law—leaps, throwing everything into that one, single, heavy, heroic step off solid ground, through the air, that nonplace between platform and the stepladder of the train.

The Second Law: An object’s acceleration is directly proportional to the force exerted on it. Accelerate, then! Go! To Rome to Rio to Timbuktu, even if in “jasper fable,” even if only by pouring over routes, memorizing timetables, dreaming, eyes open and

“my dream glitters all the more blue,”

for choosing to see and love and live this way, in glittering transience.

There are trains with dining cars lined with velvet, gold, serving champagne and such dishes as lobster thermidor, while outside, the Alps cascade. Others serve Doritos—just as good—and rancid American coffee—No.—while Manhattan blazes ahead in neon. There are sleeper trains; oak, silk, feather pillows. Or stiff iron springs, foldout cots, dubiously thin. There are also buses, cars, dirt paths, and everywhere, hotels, hostels, benches, some covered. Friends and couches and all-night cafés serving coffee and three a.m. donuts; courage, while waiting, awaiting the next train, adventure,

push, pull, call to the next dazzling heartbeat, breath, place. Ready.