I have a compulsion for travel.
No surprise revelation there.
My friends know it, everyone knows it. Why would I start a travel blog in the first place anyway?
I’m the one who compulsively checks at various travel web sites for flight deals. I’m the one who constantly bugs friends to come with me to travel. I’m the one who lies awake at night, staring at the ceiling,wondering where my next destination will be. Travel compulsion is a horrible, obsessive thing.
Travel is like crack cocaine, you see. The more you do it, the more you yearn for it. The sound of foreign tongues, the alien-like characters on their newspapers, the feeling of getting lost, the sight of unusual food and smells–you get hooked to it.
And yet, I am not as rich as the bank. No let me rephrase that–I’m broke. My mind and wallet’s relationship are currently strained, like alienated parents too religious to divorce.
My mantra towards money is that, ‘when you need it, it will come.’ And it always does. Somehow, I find myself chancing upon opportunities or help that provide me with enough money to get where I’m supposed to go.
Relationships can take a toll on constant travel, too. Sure, you meet a lot of friends from around the world. But what about your friends at home? Do they mind that you disappear from their lives every few months?
Your ideals on love morph–to become more fluid, idealistic, quixotic. I guess it happens when you started falling in love with places and not people. You will never look at love the same way again. There’s a bit of irony there–the more you go out and see what the world can offer, the harder it is to find your soulmate. Is there even such a thing?
My previous partners could never control me because I’ll always be outgoing and spontaneous. I don’t want you to spoil me with gifts, I want you to keep up with me. Give me freedom and I will love you forever.
That, or I’m just a selfish bitch with a passport.