Those I Met Along the Way- 2. Georgia

I didn’t like Georgia. She embodied everything I’d come to loath about American travelers. Every stereotype I worked to undo, she did back up again tenfold. It didn’t help that she was probably 10 years younger than me, and I could see parts of that younger me in her, parts I’d worked hard to leave behind.

Georgiahad been following me since Honduras. You see, in Central and South America there really is a gringo trail; you’re either going down or making your way back up. There is little room to deviate. Georgia and I happened to be on the same timetable and I couldn’t seem to shake her no matter what I did. I’d leave a few days early or stay a few days later and still somehow, the next hostel I roamed into, there she was, laughing too loudly, or lazily reading Shantaram in a hammock. (I highly doubted she actually read it, rather, she just wanted to be seen reading it.  In the three months she followed me around, the book never changed, while I was on my fourth.)

It appeared to be her first big trip, probably entirely funded by mommy and daddy and probably something she would go back and tell all her friends at college about how life changing it all was.  Though, I could attest, nothing about her life seemed to change in those three months we danced along each others path. 

I’d see her on the beach for a BBQ the hostel was hosting. She’d think, because we were both Americans that we had something in common; I assured her we did not.  We’d end up in the same tours, a rum tasting here, a hike up a volcano there and each time I’d show up, excited and ready for the day and there she’d be. It seemed no matter what I did; there she was, trying to make small talk with me, while I tried to elude her.  Her seeing the only bond we had as the most important there is.

There is a certain disdain more experienced travelers inevitably feel towards newbie travelers.  It usually happens at night when, even though your earplugs are in you can still hear her obnoxious laugh coming from the common room at 1 am outside the thin door of your bunkroom. Or while out in the street one day you catch a glimpse of locals staring at her in contempt, wonder what she did, but not stick around long enough to find out.

I wanted desperately not to be associated with Georgia. If I could be like the Canadian travelers I saw everywhere and wear some sort of flag patch on my bag, ‘not with Georgia, don’t blame me,’ I would have.  In the same way those Canadians didn’t want to be mistaken for ugly Americans, I didn’t want anything to do with Georgia because I knew that being affiliated with her, would surely caste those stereotypes on me.

I believed I was nothing like her. This was not my first rodeo, I knew the ropes. I knew my role and my responsibilities and I accepted them dutifully.  Be the good American traveler, show those I met how different Americans are from what they see on the TV, or from who they had previously encountered (assuming Georgiawas one step ahead of me), damage control, assure them that I did not, in fact, vote for Bush.

It wasn’t till I reached Panamaand eventually made my way back up to Hondurasthat I lost her. I imagine she continued onto Colombia, but I didn’t give it much thought. The relief I felt from being free of her brought with it time to reflect on what really bothered me about her.

Was it that little hint of me I saw in her?  Could I really have been that jejune, that naïve? Does every traveler have their first time traveling? Of course they do. Can we really expect them to know how to handle themselves abroad when they are giddy and excited to be out in the world for the first time?
 
My first big trip was to Europe. It was your stereotypical American college student dream. Backpack around Europe for a few months; see all you can, as fast as you can. I went with my best friend. Our packs were bigger than us, and I recall a time or two on trains or subways where total strangers had to help us on with them.  I’m sure I drank too much and laughed too loudly. For a long time I was quite certain I was single handedly to blame for the French’s scorn of Americans. I’m still not quite sure I’m not.

So, of course Georgiawas just being the only thing that she could be.  And yes, what irritated me about her were the similarities I saw between us and the years it took me to understand.  She would soon learn that travelers, especially American travelers, have a responsibility to behave in a way that bolsters the opinion of Americans abroad rather than hurts it.

Of course, I have doubts that she would ever venture out again. For most, traveling is simply a novelty, once you go one place, you don’t need to go anywhere else. You have traveled and you are done.  The box can be ticked. Like my father asked me when I was applying to Semester at Sea, “you’ve already been so many places, why do you need to see any more?” It seemed like the most absurd question. The fact that I had seen so many places wasthe reason I needed to see more. I was addicted. Wouldn’t anyone be?

I hope Georgiahas continued to travel. Perhaps one day our paths with cross again. This time I might not recognize her.  We might share a seat on a bus, roll our eyes at one another as we listen to the newbies across the aisle talking loudly about their crazy time on the beach the night before, wondering what the next town has in store for them. Next time we would surely have more of a connection than simply being America’s, we would be travelers sharing the same road for a brief moment of our journey.

Those I Met Along the Way- 2. Georgia

I didn’t like Georgia. She embodied everything I’d come to loath about American travelers. Every stereotype I worked to undo, she did back up again tenfold. It didn’t help that she was probably 10 years younger than me, and I could see parts of that younger me in her, parts I’d worked hard to leave behind.

Georgia had been following me since Honduras. You see, in Central and South America there really is a gringo trail; you’re either going down or making your way back up. There is little room to deviate. Georgia and I happened to be on the same timetable and I couldn’t seem to shake her no matter what I did. I’d leave a few days early or stay a few days later and still somehow, the next hostel I roamed into, there she was, laughing too loudly, or lazily reading Shantaram in a hammock. (I highly doubted she actually read it, rather, she just wanted to be seen reading it.  In the three months she followed me around, the book never changed, while I was on my fourth.)

It appeared to be her first big trip, probably entirely funded by mommy and daddy and probably something she would go back and tell all her friends at college about how life changing it all was.  Though, I could attest, nothing about her life seemed to change in those three months we danced along each others path. 

I’d see her on the beach for a BBQ the hostel was hosting. She’d think, because we were both Americans that we had something in common; I assured her we did not.  We’d end up in the same tours, a rum tasting here, a hike up a volcano there and each time I’d show up, excited and ready for the day and there she’d be. It seemed no matter what I did; there she was, trying to make small talk with me, while I tried to elude her.  Her seeing the only bond we had as the most important there is.

There is a certain disdain more experienced travelers inevitably feel towards newbie travelers.  It usually happens at night when, even though your earplugs are in you can still hear her obnoxious laugh coming from the common room at 1 am outside the thin door of your bunkroom. Or while out in the street one day you catch a glimpse of locals staring at her in contempt, wonder what she did, but not stick around long enough to find out.

I wanted desperately not to be associated with Georgia. If I could be like the Canadian travelers I saw everywhere and wear some sort of flag patch on my bag, ‘not with Georgia, don’t blame me,’ I would have.  In the same way those Canadians didn’t want to be mistaken for ugly Americans, I didn’t want anything to do with Georgia because I knew that being affiliated with her, would surely caste those stereotypes on me.

I believed I was nothing like her. This was not my first rodeo, I knew the ropes. I knew my role and my responsibilities and I accepted them dutifully.  Be the good American traveler, show those I met how different Americans are from what they see on the TV, or from who they had previously encountered (assuming Georgia was one step ahead of me), damage control, assure them that I did not, in fact, vote for Bush.

It wasn’t till I reached Panama and eventually made my way back up to Honduras that I lost her. I imagine she continued onto Colombia, but I didn’t give it much thought. The relief I felt from being free of her brought with it time to reflect on what really bothered me about her.

Was it that little hint of me I saw in her?  Could I really have been that jejune, that naïve? Does every traveler have their first time traveling? Of course they do. Can we really expect them to know how to handle themselves abroad when they are giddy and excited to be out in the world for the first time?
 
My first big trip was to Europe. It was your stereotypical American college student dream. Backpack around Europe for a few months; see all you can, as fast as you can. I went with my best friend. Our packs were bigger than us, and I recall a time or two on trains or subways where total strangers had to help us on with them.  I’m sure I drank too much and laughed too loudly. For a long time I was quite certain I was single handedly to blame for the French’s scorn of Americans. I’m still not quite sure I’m not.

So, of course Georgia was just being the only thing that she could be.  And yes, what irritated me about her were the similarities I saw between us and the years it took me to understand.  She would soon learn that travelers, especially American travelers, have a responsibility to behave in a way that bolsters the opinion of Americans abroad rather than hurts it.

Of course, I have doubts that she would ever venture out again. For most, traveling is simply a novelty, once you go one place, you don’t need to go anywhere else. You have traveled and you are done.  The box can be ticked. Like my father asked me when I was applying to Semester at Sea, “you’ve already been so many places, why do you need to see any more?” It seemed like the most absurd question. The fact that I had seen so many places was the reason I needed to see more. I was addicted. Wouldn’t anyone be?

I hope Georgia has continued to travel. Perhaps one day our paths with cross again. This time I might not recognize her.  We might share a seat on a bus, roll our eyes at one another as we listen to the newbies across the aisle talking loudly about their crazy time on the beach the night before, wondering what the next town has in store for them. Next time we would surely have more of a connection than simply being America’s, we would be travelers sharing the same road for a brief moment of our journey.

Those I Met Along the Way- 1. James

 

 

(James is in my email address book as JamesCR.  He is the first of many I’ve met along the way. They are each in my address book with the initials of whatever town or country I met them in. I’ve not seen James again, but we have corresponded throughout the ten years since we met one night in Costa Rica.  He remains special to me for the friendship we’ve shared and the one night that started it all.)

 

 There was a bonfire on the beach near my hostel.  It was the night before I was to return to San Jose, to eventually return to the States. By this time, the States seemed more foreign to me than anywhere I’d ever been.

 I sat alone on a log near the fire, an Imperial in hand. Someone was playing a guitar. Someone else was playing bongos.  The tide kept better rhythm.  I watched as he left the bonfire and headed down a path through the woods.

 I followed him a few minutes later. I saw flashlights up ahead and for some reason felt like I should be more discreet, more hidden, like all of a sudden this was some undercover spy mission. I came upon him and some other traveler I had not seen at the bonfire.

“Whatcha doing?” I said.  Hands were shoved in pockets, flashlights turned off.

“Oh, an American,” He said.

“Ya, that’s right.” I said.

“Bloody hell,” He said. (I’m not sure if that’s exactly what he said or not, but he is British and I’ve heard him say it loads of times since. I've also come to know this as a particularly common expression when a Brit hears an American accent.)

 I don’t know what made me so confident as to simply follow James into the woods to catch some illicit drug trade happening. Nor what made me so confident as to follow him back to the bonfire like we were old friends, but I did. And he let me.  And when we were back at the bonfire, to everyone else, we were the old friends we’d become in the length of the five minute walk back.

 We listened to more of the music, another drummer had joined. The keeper of the fire had given up, in a huff, demanding someone else do the tending. Someone reluctantly did. They always do. A joint was passed. James left to get us more Imperials.  When he returned, he took my hand and pulled me from the log.

 We went walking. Puerto Viejo, Costa Rica is a tiny little town.  There were few places to go, but we found them. A crowded dance club on the beach, where we lost each other a time or two, an empanada stand with the hottest chilera I’ve ever had, a spot on the beach where the waves couldn’t reach us.

 We were up all night, two strangers, a little less strange to one another. The relief of a night spent in the freedom that comes with knowing you will never see this person again. No pretense, no restraint.

When dawn came, we walked to the hostel to get my bags.  I wondered if I needed to pay for the night’s room.  He walked me back to the bus that would take me to San Jose and waited till it pulled away.

 It was more a ‘see you later’ than a ‘good bye.’  It was not tearful or long. We did not exchange addresses or numbers.  There was a simple smile shared between us. A wave from the window as the bus rolled out of sight.

 It dropped me near the hostel where I would be staying for my last night before returning to The United States.  I showered and napped and organized. I went to the common area to hang out and watch some American TV. I was lying on the floor, half on a bean bag when he tapped my shoulder.

 Another simple smile shared between us.  We had become numb to the various coincidences and run-ins that happen while traveling.  We had perhaps come to expect them, though I never anticipated seeing him again.

 Serendipity rarely strikes twice.  We recognized the moment and the anomaly of it. We exchanged addresses this time.  We sat in the common area a little unsure how to proceed.  It only took us a moment to realize there was no need for either of us to do anything. Things had clearly been set in motion.

Those I Met Along the Way- 1. James

 

 

(James is in my email address book as JamesCR.  He is the first of many I’ve met along the way. They are each in my address book with the initials of whatever town or country I met them in. I’ve not seen James again, but we have corresponded throughout the ten years since we met one night in Costa Rica.  He remains special to me for the friendship we’ve shared and the one night that started it all.)

 

 There was a bonfire on the beach near my hostel.  It was the night before I was to return to San Jose, to eventually return to the States. By this time, the States seemed more foreign to me than anywhere I’d ever been.

 I sat alone on a log near the fire, an Imperial in hand. Someone was playing a guitar. Someone else was playing bongos.  The tide kept better rhythm.  I watched as he left the bonfire and headed down a path through the woods.

 I followed him a few minutes later. I saw flashlights up ahead and for some reason felt like I should be more discreet, more hidden, like all of a sudden this was some undercover spy mission. I came upon him and some other traveler I had not seen at the bonfire.

“Whatcha doing?” I said.  Hands were shoved in pockets, flashlights turned off.

“Oh, an American,” He said.

“Ya, that’s right.” I said.

“Bloody hell,” He said. (I’m not sure if that’s exactly what he said or not, but he is British and I’ve heard him say it loads of times since. I've also come to know this as a particularly common expression when a Brit hears an American accent.)

 I don’t know what made me so confident as to simply follow James into the woods to catch some illicit drug trade happening. Nor what made me so confident as to follow him back to the bonfire like we were old friends, but I did. And he let me.  And when we were back at the bonfire, to everyone else, we were the old friends we’d become in the length of the five minute walk back.

 We listened to more of the music, another drummer had joined. The keeper of the fire had given up, in a huff, demanding someone else do the tending. Someone reluctantly did. They always do. A joint was passed. James left to get us more Imperials.  When he returned, he took my hand and pulled me from the log.

 We went walking. Puerto Viejo, Costa Rica is a tiny little town.  There were few places to go, but we found them. A crowded dance club on the beach, where we lost each other a time or two, an empanada stand with the hottest chilera I’ve ever had, a spot on the beach where the waves couldn’t reach us.

 We were up all night, two strangers, a little less strange to one another. The relief of a night spent in the freedom that comes with knowing you will never see this person again. No pretense, no restraint.

When dawn came, we walked to the hostel to get my bags.  I wondered if I needed to pay for the night’s room.  He walked me back to the bus that would take me to San Jose and waited till it pulled away.

 It was more a ‘see you later’ than a ‘good bye.’  It was not tearful or long. We did not exchange addresses or numbers.  There was a simple smile shared between us. A wave from the window as the bus rolled out of sight.

 It dropped me near the hostel where I would be staying for my last night before returning to The United States.  I showered and napped and organized. I went to the common area to hang out and watch some American TV. I was lying on the floor, half on a bean bag when he tapped my shoulder.

 Another simple smile shared between us.  We had become numb to the various coincidences and run-ins that happen while traveling.  We had perhaps come to expect them, though I never anticipated seeing him again.

 Serendipity rarely strikes twice.  We recognized the moment and the anomaly of it. We exchanged addresses this time.  We sat in the common area a little unsure how to proceed.  It only took us a moment to realize there was no need for either of us to do anything. Things had clearly been set in motion.

Do Not Feel Free To Butter My Toast

I remember JL once buttered my bread.  We were at the dinner table and he simply took knife to butter to toast and then handed it to me. I thought this was very strange. How would he know how much butter I wanted on my toast?  More to the point, how would he know I do not, in fact, like butter on my toast? We’d only known each other a month or so at the time, a point made all the more apparent by the fact he did not know these tiny details about me.  And yet he still did it.  As though the easiness we’d developed somehow overflowed onto the dinning table. It did not.

 Traveling is like that piece of toast. Some like it buttered and others do not. JL had no idea whether I liked butter on my toast or not. It may have taken months or years to get to that level of familiarity.  They say you don’t really know a person until you travel with them. I wondered if that was what it would take for JL to know all those tiny details of my life.  Is that what it will take for anyone to know me fully?

 Like the amount of butter you prefer on your bread, traveling is personal.  I’ve never thought of it that way until I started thinking about having someone join me on my long trips.  Would they keep up? Would they question the methods to my madness? Would they know me differently after having traveled with me? Would they still want to know me when we returned?

 What I like about traveling so much is the chance to simply be me; to not have anyone to impress or worry about, to not have to keep up appearances or schedules.  Traveling is the chance to be the me I am when no one is looking. Abroad no one I know is looking. They are halfway around the world. Friends and family may be reading about my travels on my blog and keeping up with my goings on, but they do not know the every day traveling me.  I’m pretty sure that’s a good thing.

 You see, anybody who knows I travel, might know where I’ve been and why I go. They may know a little about what I’ve done and seen, but the daily, routine of things is unknown to anyone, except perhaps those I meet along the way.  I like it this way.  It’s a guilty pleasure; a secret that I didn’t know I was hiding, one not hard to keep because there’s no one around to run into to discover my dirty laundry.

 Oh, it’s not that dirty, but I imagine it’s much different than most people who know me would imagine. I travel on a budget, usually a very tight budget.  This allows me to go and stay for longer. I get by on 1-2 meals a day, often eating half of one and saving the other half for later.  Normally a foodie, on the road I get by with whatever is cheapest, usually the plato del dia.  I bring snacks from home and often subsist on those alone for days.  Friends marvel at the fact that I go on ‘vacation’ and actually lose weight. I tell them it’s the budget diet, works every time.

 I stay in the cheapest accommodations I can tolerate, and I can tolerate a lot.  Shared bathrooms, snoring bunk mates and concrete rooms with no windows are not unusual. I don’t do laundry, rather I bring enough under clothing to make it through and am fine wearing a bikini as such as well.  If I do need to wash something, the sink and whatever bath soap I’ve brought will do.

 I take long overnight busses because it is cheaper than renting a room.  I hitch rides with strangers heading where I’ve just discovered I want to go.  I walk miles to beaches and restaurants to save money on taxis. I enjoy the view.

 I talk to strangers.  Everyone you meet traveling is a stranger. I really like the idea of that; a world full of strangers for me to meet. I take the opportunity to practice my Spanish. I offer a different representation of the American traveler. I share meals with families who notice me dining alone.  I spent whole days on a beach with only a book and a journal. I might go days without speaking to anyone.

 I try to imagine all of this with someone else tagging along with me.  Would they do it without complaining? Would they find it as exciting as I do?  Would they try to change the way I’ve done things for years? Would I let them?  The way I travel is never something I’ve had to explain. It is simply something I have developed through the years that works well for me. I’ve never had to think about someone else being with me.

 How much butter you prefer or don’t prefer on your toast is personal. The way I travel is personal.  It’s not something I try to hide. It is simply something hidden because no one is around to see it.  It’s like the way I dance in Zumba when I know no one I know is watching me; a little freer, a little crazier, a little more me.  Would having a partner with me change everything?

Do Not Feel Free To Butter My Toast

I remember JL once buttered my bread.  We were at the dinner table and he simply took knife to butter to toast and then handed it to me. I thought this was very strange. How would he know how much butter I wanted on my toast?  More to the point, how would he know I do not, in fact, like butter on my toast? We’d only known each other a month or so at the time, a point made all the more apparent by the fact he did not know these tiny details about me.  And yet he still did it.  As though the easiness we’d developed somehow overflowed onto the dinning table. It did not.

 Traveling is like that piece of toast. Some like it buttered and others do not. JL had no idea whether I liked butter on my toast or not. It may have taken months or years to get to that level of familiarity.  They say you don’t really know a person until you travel with them. I wondered if that was what it would take for JL to know all those tiny details of my life.  Is that what it will take for anyone to know me fully?

 Like the amount of butter you prefer on your bread, traveling is personal.  I’ve never thought of it that way until I started thinking about having someone join me on my long trips.  Would they keep up? Would they question the methods to my madness? Would they know me differently after having traveled with me? Would they still want to know me when we returned?

 What I like about traveling so much is the chance to simply be me; to not have anyone to impress or worry about, to not have to keep up appearances or schedules.  Traveling is the chance to be the me I am when no one is looking. Abroad no one I know is looking. They are halfway around the world. Friends and family may be reading about my travels on my blog and keeping up with my goings on, but they do not know the every day traveling me.  I’m pretty sure that’s a good thing.

 You see, anybody who knows I travel, might know where I’ve been and why I go. They may know a little about what I’ve done and seen, but the daily, routine of things is unknown to anyone, except perhaps those I meet along the way.  I like it this way.  It’s a guilty pleasure; a secret that I didn’t know I was hiding, one not hard to keep because there’s no one around to run into to discover my dirty laundry.

 Oh, it’s not that dirty, but I imagine it’s much different than most people who know me would imagine. I travel on a budget, usually a very tight budget.  This allows me to go and stay for longer. I get by on 1-2 meals a day, often eating half of one and saving the other half for later.  Normally a foodie, on the road I get by with whatever is cheapest, usually the plato del dia.  I bring snacks from home and often subsist on those alone for days.  Friends marvel at the fact that I go on ‘vacation’ and actually lose weight. I tell them it’s the budget diet, works every time.

 I stay in the cheapest accommodations I can tolerate, and I can tolerate a lot.  Shared bathrooms, snoring bunk mates and concrete rooms with no windows are not unusual. I don’t do laundry, rather I bring enough under clothing to make it through and am fine wearing a bikini as such as well.  If I do need to wash something, the sink and whatever bath soap I’ve brought will do.

 I take long overnight busses because it is cheaper than renting a room.  I hitch rides with strangers heading where I’ve just discovered I want to go.  I walk miles to beaches and restaurants to save money on taxis. I enjoy the view.

 I talk to strangers.  Everyone you meet traveling is a stranger. I really like the idea of that; a world full of strangers for me to meet. I take the opportunity to practice my Spanish. I offer a different representation of the American traveler. I share meals with families who notice me dining alone.  I spent whole days on a beach with only a book and a journal. I might go days without speaking to anyone.

 I try to imagine all of this with someone else tagging along with me.  Would they do it without complaining? Would they find it as exciting as I do?  Would they try to change the way I’ve done things for years? Would I let them?  The way I travel is never something I’ve had to explain. It is simply something I have developed through the years that works well for me. I’ve never had to think about someone else being with me.

 How much butter you prefer or don’t prefer on your toast is personal. The way I travel is personal.  It’s not something I try to hide. It is simply something hidden because no one is around to see it.  It’s like the way I dance in Zumba when I know no one I know is watching me; a little freer, a little crazier, a little more me.  Would having a partner with me change everything?

Solo

The first time I traveled solo was in Europe.  I was 21 years old.  It was my third time in Italy, and I figured having traveled there twice before might make it easier for me to go it alone. Our ship docked in Civitavecchia, a tiny port town less than an hour by train to Rome. 

 Traveling on my own was scary and exhilarating and exciting and frustrating, but it was something I had wanted to do for a long time. By this time I knew travel was going to be an important part of my life, and so I thought I might as well find out what I was made of now.  Italywas one of our last stops on our around the world voyage, and I was eager for the challenge after already putting eight countries under my belt. I wouldn’t say I was confident, but I was certain.

 I took the train to Rome, not necessarily alone.  No one from the ship was staying in Civitavecchia, we were all headed elsewhere, on the same train.  I found a hostel and dropped my bag. I took to the streets and was bombarded by sights and sounds I had forgotten from my two previous visits there. I found a pizza shop I was certain I’d eaten in before.  A gelato I had devoured in the past.  It’s a funny thing the things you remember when you think you will never return. 

 I’d run into fellow passengers along the cobbled streets; not an unusual occurrence when 600 students are set loose in a port.  And in this sense I was not completely on my own. I recommended a hostel to two guys from the ship and received a discount when they showed up for a room. I was particularly proud of this. Somehow, to me, it meant I was at ease alone in a place I wasn’t sure I should be.  That moment, more than any other in the five days I spent on my own in Rome, proved to me that I could do this.
 

Since then, nearly everywhere I’ve ever traveled, I’ve traveled alone, including two months traveling in the south of Chileand Argentina, two weeks traveling to Antarctica, and two months in Central America.  When I tell friends or strangers that I am going to Puerto Rico or Colombiathe first question out of their mouths is, “with who?” They are shocked and surprised when I say, “no one,” or “myself.” I suppose I’ve not found a very good answer to that question.  Not one suitable to the person asking anyway.  They are not sure how to react to this bit of information.  They’d never do that. Aren’t I scared? Worried? Nervous? Won’t I get lonely?

 The truth is, each time I go, I am a little nervous in the days leading up to the trip.  I worry that I’ll get lost, or the language barrier will be too much, or maybe I will get lonely.  I chalk this up simply to the anticipation of the trip.  But pretty much, by the time I get to whatever hostel I find, I’m good. I got this. The excitement of exploring a new city, a new culture overwhelms any fear I might have had.

 Instead of being lonely, I welcome the solitude. I read whole books in days, I write for hours, I sit on the beach and enjoy the sound of the waves as they crash at my feet. I spend entire afternoons on outdoor patios sipping beer and watching people pass by.  I eat amazing food I can’t name and perhaps suffer the consequences later. And while I’m doing all of that, I reflect on my life and where I’ve come. I have time to be grateful and appreciate where I am.

 And while traveling on my own has other benefits that you might imagine- being on nobody else’s schedule but mine, and therefore not needing to have a schedule at all, falling in love with a place and deciding to stay longer, lingering at a waterfall that perhaps a companion would rush me from, drinking till 4 am at an Independence day celebration and sleeping till 12 with no complaints from a too gung ho pal- I am discovering with each trip I take, (and the progression in years has not escaped me here either), that I may want a friend with me to share the beauty of that waterfall, or to walk me back to the hostel after a long night at that bar by the beach. 

 I know I will continue to travel alone.  Finding someone to go on month or longer trips is not easy.  Not everyone has a great job like mine which allows me extended time off to go away. I’m also not sure many people would really want to travel the way I do.  But I also know, the more I continue going and growing, the more I want someone to share it all with. To finish the stories I return to tell. To confirm the sunset over the ocean, the wolf that crossed my path, the rum in that strange drink. To hold my hand when words are worthless.