I'm visiting my sister's place in Tampa, and just went outside to see if I could find a stick of butter at the local convenience store. Well, "convenience" is probably a stretch, as anyone paying more than $3 for one stick of butter might consider themselves inconvenienced, but the "store" part of its name still stood with its integrity intact.

Anyways, the goose-like honk of a cruise ship rang out when I exited her building. Hearing honks a bit (a big bit) louder than car horns occurs on a regular basis here next to the bay-- and unless you have consistently steel nerves, you are never ready for those blasts. As I looked up at the cruise ship, I couldn't help but wonder at two things: first, that the boat looked like it was heading straight for the island I stood on (ahhh!), and second, only the testosterone-saturated brain of a man must could have dreamed up something that big. The sheer size floored me ("roaded" me, I guess, as I was on asphalt), and seemed somehow. . . unnecessary.

I'll never understand that desire to make things huge, so the most I can guess is that some are born with it and I am not one of them. A standard kayak (a very adept boat style for boats, rivers, and oceans) rings in at 18 feet in length, 100 times shorter than the world's largest cruise ship. But, try to hang a chandelier or place an entry staircase in a kayak and the hassle will surely lead you to decide the bigger boat is worth the $1.4 billion dollar investment. Some creature comforts are worth a pretty penny, eh? And if that also could prove your dominance over the oceans and technology combined, think of how many territorial pees you could save.

Traveling is a funny thing. I spent a year abroad in Innsbruck, quite enjoying being in Austria and having most of Europe a train ride away. Yet, in all my travels, I couldn't help but feel guilty that my parents and I spent a year paying for ridiculously expensive college tuition so that I could tromp around taking goofy pictures in front of Roman ruins. We barely have the financial ability to send me to a good college, so am I not overextending our means by assuming the airs of a world traveler? Every trip I planned plagued me with these back-home realities. How could I justify this, when I did not even feel I learned that much in my classes, far less challenging than those at my home university?

Then I came home. At first I just basked in the familiarity of it all-- familiarity that bordered on alien (anyone who has been away from home for a long period of time knows this feeling). As time went on, I reacquainted myself with home, with friends and family, with American styles of life. As time continued even further, I forgot the parts of Europe that had been difficult for me, and instead increasingly remembered only the happy travels and dialect learned. The accepted reaction to "I studied abroad for a year" is always, "Wow, that must have been amazing."

And so it was. By default, I had a great experience in Austria. Did I act in the same fashion as debt-laden credit card enthusiasts? Yes. --or, at least I forced my parents into such an action. Did I spend time at bars when I could have sought out natives to learn the true culture? Of course. Did I have fun? Plenty. I also missed my love at home, often unbearably. Do I now sometimes want to go back, envious of the pictures of freedom that world traveling friends show me? Of course. Traveling is a funny thing.

My ceiling fan is overactive. Well, overactive or stagnant. Exhilarated or depressed, it knows no in-between. Switching it to medium speed leaves its blades so slow-moving that the air they encounter strolls with them, rather than run away with the force of the blade motion. But put it on high, and the metal stem rooting the fan to the ceiling shakes its rubber hips like Shakira singing a duel to death (those hips don't lie. . . ).

Sometimes I turn the fan speed down, respecting the fine line between an overactive fan and a potential guillotine. Yet, once the low speed and silent accompanying motion reassure my worries, I find I miss the comfort the fan provided. Dangerous, perhaps-- far too busy, no doubt. But it kept me comfortable; the fan did its job and soothed my pain (pain being here, of course, the heat of a Georgia summer). When the blades are inactive, I can't imagine what could go wrong with a high speed fan crowning my room. When they're begging to slow down, I wish I had seen sooner the struggle they experienced in their high speed chase right back to their beginnings.

When will the fan learn to relax? To alternate between speeds, but find contentment in the speed of each present moment? Perhaps I should buy a remote switch to acclimate the fan to a life of intervals. . . or simply learn to appreciate the contentment it already provides.