Work too hard and quite often you will find you benefit. First, there's no risk of making too many friends unless you count the ones whose shifts you cover or who you get free ski tickets for. The chances of falling in love are slim to none, even if you find yourself nearly tempted by a coworker once or twice. Quickly you start to pick up on what you don't want to do with your life while the growing bank account and looming period of Funemployment ahead makes you question your $200,000 liberal arts degree because, well, waitressing is pretty lucrative. At the end of it all you book a crazy adventure south of the equator just because. Because you walked away with several thousand dollars in excess funds from four months of work and, honestly, you deserve it.
So I am on my journey south, but wondering the entire time when in the world I will get over this pseudo-wanderlust. I really am not a vagabond, as so many would assume. My friends don't understand how I can claim to want to travel when I hate flying, hate being alone, and now refuse to even go anywhere unless I know someone there. I enjoy seeing the world. I like comparisons and trying new things and admiring the beauty and the diversity of landscapes and peoples and cuisine around the world. I love getting stamps in my passport and being able to live out of a single bag for a month at a time. I even like airports and don't mind being the lump that visits and benefits from the couches of friends and mere acquaintances!
What I hate goes so far beyond the travel that it's helped me re-prioritize my life. It's the backseat that strong, positive relationships take when people know you won't be living anywhere near them at the end of a season or after a few months. It's friends assuming you are in a heartless pursuit of a career and nothing else, that you are perfectly happy living someplace different every time you catch up with them on the phone. I consider the reluctance with which I write my address, how it doesn't feel like my own, and how the only place I consider home anymore is where my dog is. It's the anxiety I feel when I realize I'm attracted to someone both physically and emotionally and have no idea where I'll be living in six months.
I am lucky that I've followed my dreams and curiosity around the world a couple of times. There's a lot I still need to see, many things I'm excited to experience in South America, but it doesn't have to be as it's been. Many people enjoy travel. Many friends can be made that have scheduled vacation time. Many of those "friends" have likely either not seen much of the world and would love a companion or have seen a lot and would love to share its beauty with another adventurous spirit. I want more than just a "Like" on a Facebook album. I want to look across the coffee shop table and be asked to go try to dance tango. I want to go to the bathroom without all my belongings falling into the toilet as I try to hang them on the door and from myself and each other. I want to order five entrees and have someone to share and taste them with and not feel like I have to eat them all myself. I want to wander the streets at night and find myself in a local bar with great music and not fear for being a woman out alone that late at night.
It all begins with this adventure, 63 days on the road, visiting old friends and bopping wherever I want. Not where a companion wants. I'm excited for the opportunity I'm being hurtled towards at 10,000 feet. It's my time to be selfish, because I hope it's the last. I'll go to bed at 7pm or 4am because I want to. I'll eat 4 breakfasts and move straight to cocktail hour if I want. Because after this, worst-case, all future travels will be road trips with the best little dog friend a girl could ask for. But hopefully the next adventure is from a home airport with a crew of good potential travelers to choose from that I also make dinner with during the workweek. And that sounds like a pretty solid start towards being a big kid, if you ask me.
So I am on my journey south, but wondering the entire time when in the world I will get over this pseudo-wanderlust. I really am not a vagabond, as so many would assume. My friends don't understand how I can claim to want to travel when I hate flying, hate being alone, and now refuse to even go anywhere unless I know someone there. I enjoy seeing the world. I like comparisons and trying new things and admiring the beauty and the diversity of landscapes and peoples and cuisine around the world. I love getting stamps in my passport and being able to live out of a single bag for a month at a time. I even like airports and don't mind being the lump that visits and benefits from the couches of friends and mere acquaintances!
What I hate goes so far beyond the travel that it's helped me re-prioritize my life. It's the backseat that strong, positive relationships take when people know you won't be living anywhere near them at the end of a season or after a few months. It's friends assuming you are in a heartless pursuit of a career and nothing else, that you are perfectly happy living someplace different every time you catch up with them on the phone. I consider the reluctance with which I write my address, how it doesn't feel like my own, and how the only place I consider home anymore is where my dog is. It's the anxiety I feel when I realize I'm attracted to someone both physically and emotionally and have no idea where I'll be living in six months.
I am lucky that I've followed my dreams and curiosity around the world a couple of times. There's a lot I still need to see, many things I'm excited to experience in South America, but it doesn't have to be as it's been. Many people enjoy travel. Many friends can be made that have scheduled vacation time. Many of those "friends" have likely either not seen much of the world and would love a companion or have seen a lot and would love to share its beauty with another adventurous spirit. I want more than just a "Like" on a Facebook album. I want to look across the coffee shop table and be asked to go try to dance tango. I want to go to the bathroom without all my belongings falling into the toilet as I try to hang them on the door and from myself and each other. I want to order five entrees and have someone to share and taste them with and not feel like I have to eat them all myself. I want to wander the streets at night and find myself in a local bar with great music and not fear for being a woman out alone that late at night.
It all begins with this adventure, 63 days on the road, visiting old friends and bopping wherever I want. Not where a companion wants. I'm excited for the opportunity I'm being hurtled towards at 10,000 feet. It's my time to be selfish, because I hope it's the last. I'll go to bed at 7pm or 4am because I want to. I'll eat 4 breakfasts and move straight to cocktail hour if I want. Because after this, worst-case, all future travels will be road trips with the best little dog friend a girl could ask for. But hopefully the next adventure is from a home airport with a crew of good potential travelers to choose from that I also make dinner with during the workweek. And that sounds like a pretty solid start towards being a big kid, if you ask me.
