MY ADULT LIFE has been largely defined by my travels. Travel, I’ve found, is what I do best. Whether it is through Washington’s forests or the jungles of Laos, I am happiest and at my most creative when I am traveling.
But now, two years since the last stamp has dried on my passport I pace the room with a melancholy restlessness. It feels like nebulous grieving. The turning of the decade set my desire to get lost somewhere, anywhere, snapping photos, climbing trees, blogging and drinking with locals.
First the longing made me angry. This is bullshit! I protested, I am traveler, not some laptop jockey on a coffee binge! Depression followed anger, moping. Slack faced I pitied myself and riffled through old travel journals and scrapbooks. Digging through my closet, I pull out backpacks, pocket knives and dog-eared phrase books, surrounding myself with the stuff of travel.