There are very few people I like to travel with for extended periods of time. Sure, most people can get along for a few days or so, but when it comes to the big adventures, the long journeys, you want someone on your side whom you can trust, someone who understands you, someone who shares your values and your interests. Then who better to travel with than your mum?
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Despite writing online about my travels for eight years now, I’m relatively new to the travel blogging community and the subsequent social media. Since signing up for Twitter and Facebook in the past year, I’ve come across a lot of fellow travellers, and I’ve read a lot of biographies. One line that pops up a lot? “I’m a twenty-something traveller.” Recently, when reading another Twitter bio with the same line, I had a sudden thought: I’m not going to be a twenty-something traveller for much longer. I turn 30 next spring.
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Street art is a great love of mine. When we think of street art, we think of Melbourne, London, Valparaiso, Berlin, New York, Buenos Aires. I hadn’t given much thought to what would be on the walls of Colombia, but I was overjoyed to find an entire alley in Cartagena’s district of Getsemeni devoted to beautiful, powerful, politically-driven art. I took dozens of photos, including a couple which were signed, seemingly absent-mindedly, by one name: Guillermo.
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In 2006, my hand luggage consisted of little more than the travel necessities (wallet and passport), one tiny digital camera, one book, and my journal and pens. Last year, through Central and South America, my hand luggage contained three cameras, one laptop, one hard drive, one smart phone, one Kindle, oh yeah, and my journal and pens. Guess which one got the least amount of use?
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I have a confession to make: the very first meal I ate in Venice, ever, was at McDonald’s. I have another confession to make: the very last meal I ate in India was also at McDonald’s. Do I have to hand in my passport now? Will the travelling gods banish me to hell, AKA a smelly night bus in Laos with only snoring men and crying babies and ridiculously loud pop music and lawn chairs for seats (yes, I’ve been in this hell, and it is the route from Phonsavan to Vientiane)? Should we feel guilty about eating at McDonald’s when we travel?
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“I don’t know,” he mused one night over Skype. “I mean, I want to travel, but I’m so comfortable here. It’s so easy. Maybe I like this routine.”
I was talking to a friend of mine who has been planning a backpacking trip to South America, apparently setting out later on this year. All of a sudden, he came up with a barrage of excuses for why he shouldn’t, couldn’t, simply can’t travel.
And you know what I said to him?
“Bullshit.”