Travel -- Part 1

I love travel.

I really am addicted to the travel bug. The smells, the sounds the journey. It's all in the journey. Being free to behave in ways you wouldn't normally at home, like taking random photos in the street. Getting lost and asking for directions. Somehow there is a wonderful satisfaction in all of that. Dreaming about it, planning it, doing it. The flight. It's ecstasy.

But there are things I hate about traveling. One of those is the week leading up to the start of the journey. I really hate the days leading up to the journey. I hate the packing. I hate the insecurity and the separation. I hate the interruption to my life.

I hate that I'll forget to take things I need. I hate that I'll miss my life and my small comforts when I'm there. I hate that I'll lug around things that I won't need or use. I hate that I know all of that but can't change it. I hate that I won't take care of my life at home. That I'll let it go, that I'll have to trust others to look after my home. I hate the thought that I won't be home when I need to be safe.

The last night in my own bed is always a restless anxious one. A lot of disturbed dreams, uncomfortable ones.

Then the time comes. I step outside and the journey begins. All my fears and all my worries are forgotten. The excitement begins. The rush is here.