Have you ever had a certain feeling about a place—like you’ve never been there, but there’s been you? Lately, I’ve been having that feeling.

The call comes late at night, like a whisper in my ear saying, “Why are you lying in the arms of that cheap ho? Come to me, little one.” And I want to protest, to say that she’s not a cheap ho…but then I realize that she is, because that’s all I can afford on my Tangential salary, and the whisper is actually her dank breath whistling through the gap in her teeth.

The call haunts me. When I hear the tornado sirens being tested, my ears hear for a minute what my soul has been feeling for a lifetime: a sort of sweet, distant honking. That is the call I must heed.

Today, I packed my bags. I considered bringing clothes, but then decided that I had best change to local garb upon my arrival, or maybe just go nude and expose myself to the unknowable gaze of those who dwell in this sacred place. I also considered bringing toiletries, but I couldn’t remember whether that three-ounce rule is still in effect. Finally, I considered bringing reading material, but I set it aside: this trip is not for my literate brain, it is for my illiterate soul. Ultimately, I decided to make this journey with only my passport, my Discover card, and my golf clubs.

My plane is about to leave, and I am turning one last gaze upon the lakes of Minnesota, as depicted on the Pepsi vending machines in the E concourse.

Join me, won’t you?

In this new weekly series, I will be sharing my journey, wherever it takes me. You may weep, I may vomit, you may laugh, I may sneeze. Follow me on this journey, and I will introduce you to my heart, my soul, my being, my essence.

The hors d’œuvres of a larger world.

My Guatemala.

– Jay Gabler

Photo courtesy Minneapolis-St. Paul Airports Commission