Friends, I really am reclusive. I dislike travel, intensely, and I don't give out my address. People occasionally invite me to Outer Darkness, Montana, or the savage and untamed far corners of Indiana or other such outlandish places and meaning no offense, that's unlikely to happen unless I need medical or financial help only available in those places. I'm a worrier; I have trouble making myself leave the house for work in the morning.
Travel for pleasure is like lion-taming: I'll watch other people do it but I would not want to try it myself.
Here's an example: my last "big trip" but one or two was a day-trip to West Baden Springs, restored but empty at the time. The nearby French Lick Resort* was where I bit down on a well-done burger at lunch and punched a tooth root through the bone of my upper jaw. I didn't know that at the time, it just hurt, a lot. On the way home, I had my first migraine. It was the start of a lot of trouble and tribulation.
Travel? Nero Wolfe and Mycroft Holmes had the right idea about it!
* No, no, no.
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