Somewhere in the distance a melody beckons, luring me towards its music box tinkling. The evening sun silhouettes a pendulum tower glittering scarlet and aqua. Squealing children and laughing families entice me through the neon arches. A cornucopia of honks and bells from different directions blend to form memories of an archaic childhood I’ve discarded. Against a purpling sky the fairgrounds take on magic proportions, enigmatic and otherworldly.
Climbing onto the ferris wheel I regress to a time when I believed being itinerant the epitome of freedom. The carousel a subversive beauty; the circus tent a life of ease and frivolity; the leaping spinning whirling machines an invitation to romance. How I longed to run away and join the smiling jugglers, clowns, and magicians offering me the gift of exoticism.
Decades later, mired in overpacked luggage, always en route between cultures, I dreamed of a destination where I could plant my feet. Somewhere to call home. Scrolled endlessly through photos of cabins and interior design videos, searching for what encapsulated permanence, comfort, the solidity of the womb.
Rocking from the top of the amusement ride, an entire landscape under my dominion, the aroma of fried dough and burning meat returns me to when the mysteries of love, affection, friendship, and trysts befuddled my days. Did they like me or didn’t they? Was I in with the right crowd or not? Was this a gesture of devotion or rejection? These questions haunted me as I shared delicate spun sugar with confidantes, held hands on the merry-go-round, competed for stuffed toys. I was young and yearned to be older, steelier, surer. I desired the sort of love promised me in scenes that took place at fairgrounds as two people suddenly became certain of their dedication to one another for eternity.
Now I watch the adolescents flirt with anticipation, their fluttering gestures and anxious energy full of delightful possibility as they jostle towards the clairvoyant’s cabana or jockey for the ring toss. Their relationship quagmires, their quicksand emotions have long ebbed from my repertoire. There will be no more first kisses or before anyone else’s for me. Absence, it seems, is the perpetual motion carrying us on the roller coaster of desires.
Can our longings ever be satisfied? We seesaw from want to want, convinced greener pastures lie just around the corner. The rich yearn for “simpler” lives, the poor crave the riches that wealth buys. The famous desire anonymity, while the nameless masses aspire to be recognized. We mourn the slow, handcrafted days of pre-industrialism, but cannot abide the toil of daily chores or delayed gratification. We are always in the mood for something, wishing for someone. A nameless pit of longing exists within each of us that we fill with religion, food, money, exercise, entertainment, objects, and scattered selves.
Between our vision board and our reality lies an uncrossable chasm as impossible to master as the antique high striker. It’s an impasse I ache to bridge daily — the words I painstakingly choose never quite saying what I intend. The story never turning out the way I contemplated. Perhaps this is how we make the most meaning out of our lives: the insignificant moments having no value except for the expectations we put upon them. A future of potentials: the job that will be, the next marriage, the vacation after this one. And the hope that the about to happen will finally fulfill us.
We can get buried under our dreams of golden horizons, forever disappointed in our less than glistening present, unless we feed that endless hunger with gratitude. This is not to say that we shouldn’t imagine better futures or plow towards them, but alongside the anticipation has to be an appreciation of the imperfect now.
The old axle squeaks. My gondola plods to a halt above the treetops. And while I’m looking forward to trying salty pretzels and posing before the funhouse mirror, at this moment I’m closing the door on what will happen in order to enjoy the view from my seat.
Bespoke Traveler Note:
“Warum das Kind in der Polenta kocht,” by Aglaja Veteranyi explores themes of abandonment, migration, and home through the lens of a Romanian circus performer.
Thank you for listening. “A Buried Life” was written and narrated by Atreyee Gupta. For more, head to bespoketraveler.com.
