THIS THING CALLED TRAVEL

Travel is such a paradox.

When I’m home, I long for the foreign and the strange (I am beyond longing at this point!): the smells, the sounds, the sites and the sensations of different cultures, different people.  
 
When I’m travelling, sooner or later I long for a familiar face in the crowd.  The need to hug my grandkids, to have a leisurely lunch with an old friend, to write at my desk and sleep in my own bed; all conspire to lure me back home.   

Having been home for the last six weeks while Jimmy and I took care of some much needed housekeeping (I still don’ t know why we couldn’t have hired someone to take care of the housekeeping:  the blood draws, the physical therapy, the new cataracts) I continually felt restless, that I was missing so much out there in the world at large.   

What is this thing that has such a hold on me?  I was hoping you’d ask. Okay, I did bring it up but this is typically a one-sided conversation anyway.  Jump in any time.  I know you're out there. 
 
Travel is a lot of things to a lot of people, running the gamut from adventure to Zen-like with everything in between.  Here’s what travel is to me. 

Travel is . . .

. . .  ordering something out of the Sky Mall catalogue, against your better judgment.

. . .  allowing complete strangers to pat you down in the name of safety. 

. . .  discovering your internal alarm clock is set for three am local time.

. . .  missing home, but not enough to return home.

. . .  rarely knowing what day of the month it is, sometimes what day of the week.  
 
. . .  eating day after day sans diet.

. . .  waking up in the middle of the night and getting lost on your way to the bathroom.    
 
. . .  sitting two rows up from the crying baby on the eight hour flight to Europe.

. . .  happening upon a highly entertaining street busker in a foreign country who caps off a 
       memorable two weeks of travel in a very unique way.

. . .  heading home on an early morning flight, only to arrive home late in the morning of the
       same day.  
 
. . .  communicating with locals via hand gestures.

. . .  discovering how liberating it feels to step outside your comfort zone.

. . .  carrying a cell phone good only for snapping pictures.

. . .  spending five minutes figuring out how to turn the shower on.

. . .  not letting a little rain (even a lot of rain) ruin your plans for the day.

. . .  finding chocolates on your pillow.

. . .  sometimes eating while on the run, then paying for it with the runs.

. . .  detesting food that comes wrapped in cellophane or aluminum foil only to discover you
       can stomach almost anything when you're hungry and on a plane.

. . .  having no idea how you’re going to get all your belongings back into your suitcase for the
       return trip home.

. . .  examining your passport with pride as soon as the local agent hands it back to you freshly
       stamped.

. . .  celebrating other cultures.

. . .  never having to change the linens or clean the toilet. 
 
. . .  returning home with a better view of the world, and you in that world. 
 
. . .  losing yourself, finding yourself, loving the new you.