It is a funny thing that travel does to me. To be in a place where the only known is my own skin, my own breath, my own mind, is a little intimidating and a lot joy-inducing. Free of the trappings of routine and the expectancy that only familiar faces can bring is glorious. I love soaking up the sun in other cultures, hearing a foreign tongue questioning my wants and intentions, watching colors spun into whole other constellations in markets and squares, on buses and trains. But most of all, I love how free travel makes me – free to be in the choice of the moment, whatever I want to choose.
I often travel to places that have a much richer, older, more romantic history than what I know of my own mid-western U.S. upbringing or current Mountain Standard Time home. I’ve seen Nepal and India, Morocco and Chile, and more. I’ve walked cobblestone streets hundreds of years old with carved wood and neon signs alike reflect in their puddles. And each time, I feel closer to everything – the people there and here, the sounds, the colors, the me in here and out. Perhaps it is all the history anchoring me in such a way that lets my spirit and mind soar a little higher. Perhaps it is the simplicity of being away from a job of words and numbers, or an apartment with few surprises outside its door.
Am I free right here where I am, historical architecture or no? Well, I suppose so. Do I grab and gobble the opportunities here like I so readily do across very large ponds? No way. So, I raise a toast to trips come and gone and yet to be taken. To the beauty of new contexts, new lands, and new digs. To the beauty of wanting all of that newness. In fact, the yearning to leave and planning to go make me a little more ready to face what is right here in front of me right now. So the toast I raise is to that yearning, that wanderlust. Wanderlust is a most beautiful thing.