I’ve had the urge to travel for as long as I can remember. Even as a child I was a wanderer. Much to my mother’s dismay and often times embarrassment, I was an explorer. It didn’t really matter where we were, sometimes it was at the park, sometimes on family vacation, or, more often than not, at the grocery store. She’d turn her back for a second and i’d be off, wandering the aisles in search of the great unknown. Then, before long, that all too familiar voice would be heard over the intercom.
“Attention shoppers: Could the mother of a blond haired, blue eyed girl, wearing a red t-shirt please come to customer service?”
My mother would flush with embarrassment, as she once again went to retrieve her wandering child from the security desk.
Twenty-some years later, I’m still a wanderer. And although my mother is used to it. I don’t think it gets any easier. In fact I think it gets harder.
When I was 21 and set out to see the world it was expected, and encouraged. But now, years later, when you tell your family you’re quitting your job, selling everything you own and moving half-way around the world, it can be a little harder to understand.