I don’t know why I travel so much.
When people ask, I always give the stock standard response that I like seeing the natural and man-made wonders of the world, eating new food, and experiencing exotic cultures.
I don’t think that’s entirely true anymore though?
My sister had her one-year anniversary today, and she said to me “I bet it’s only a fraction of how it feels to travel the world, huh?”, and I felt my smile fall off my face.
The world is beautiful.
I’ve kayaked crystal clear seas, and climbed lush forested mountains, and camped on questionable cliff faces just to watch the sunrise from the perfect angle in the morning. The wild things of earth are so immeasurably gorgeous. Then there’s the people I met along the way, and the nights spent drinking around campfires, and making music, and revelling in our mutual love for the now.
But then the morning comes, and the moment is over. I climb down the mountain, or repel down the cliff. We douse the smouldering ashes of the campfire, and we go our separate ways with promises to see each other again, doomed to be broken before they’ve even passed your lips.
I wouldn’t change the things I’ve done, but maybe I’d change the way I did them.
Maybe I’d shift my priorities.
I want to be able to look at a city, or a town, or a house, or a person and say, “My place in the world is here.” I can’t keep running away, from city to city, jumping boarders like a child jumping rope.
I still have this burning desire to explore, but I recognise how over romanticised it is.
Especially when you’re going it alone.
The world’s a lonely place, and just because I can say that I’ve seen Angkor Wat and Machu Picchu and Niagara Falls and the Eiffel Tower doesn’t make it any less lonely.