For many of us, the idea of traveling the world for a living sounds like somewhat of a dream job and for Cynthia Drescher our dream is her reality. But no matter where she is, a bustling city, exotic destination or historical hub, Cynthia knows there is one place that compares to no other and that is her family farm in Ohio.
[caption id="attachment_792" align="aligncenter" width="580" caption="Photo Credit: Cynthia Drescher"]
I counted. In 2011, I spent the equivalent of three solid months sleeping in hotel rooms around the world. Fortunately, I am able to choose them—most independent properties--and I am thankful every day for the freedom to travel. Still, once or twice a year there comes a time when I’m overwhelmed by a desire to head home. Real home.
I live in New York City. I've spent the last ten years trying to grow beyond my provincial roots. It's only recently that I've come to terms with the fact that, no matter where I am or what I'm doing--buying street meat in Bangkok or strolling along a stream in Andorra--I'll forever be the good Midwestern girl at heart. And I can admit that I love coming home to the family farm in Ohio, my personal magnetic north.
The farther and longer I roam, the greater the desire for a visit. What's the draw? For one, the aesthetics. There's a proper outhouse. And a well pump. And a rickety barn, its red paint long faded (except for a scant amount left under the more sheltered eaves). And an old house complete with wood-burning stove. In places its Norman Rockwell work, absent the ruddy-cheeked people. For another, the knowledge that I'm back in the one place with real roots.
Staying too long becomes a threat--a threat to my rolling stone ways. If only I could stand the nights, in their infinite darkness and silence. No, I'm too accustomed to the city now, office building lights shining into my bedroom and subways rumbling only several stories underground. It's that dichotomy that really tickles, that keeps the farm still shrouded in mystery for me no matter how familiar.