I love, love, LOVE to travel. It’s my reason for being. My predominant trait is curiosity. What’s around the next corner? How do people live their lives over there? And how about over there? What’s the food like? How do they celebrate? If someone told me that I could never leave home again, I’d curl up and die on the spot. I cannot remember a time when I wasn’t filled with wanderlust.
So when my niece posted this article on Facebook, it really fascinated me. It seems there’s an actual genetic component to my desire to get moving. I love that I have an excuse now. (“But honey, it’s not my fault. I have to go to Hawaii.”)
And it does feel like a need. When I don’t travel for a long time, I start to get tense. It almost feels like an itch that I’m not able to scratch. The desire to see something new is almost overwhelming. I’ve been to 22 countries so far, and it never gets boring.
It doesn’t have to be expensive or elaborate. I’m not flying first class or eating at 5 star restaurants. I’m not shopping until I drop. I just need to explore. I need to expand my horizons. I need to wander the back alleys, I need to descend into the caves. I need to find out.
Travel is who I am. It only seems fitting that it’s in the very marrow of my bones, in the genes that were passed down to me from a long line of fellow travelers. This makes me very happy.