The first below-freezing day in Minnesota hit me hard this year. So hard that I went to my garage and started up my bike, threw my bag on, and fantasized that I was going to ride her out west. Unfortunately, it was just too cold and there was not enough time. Fortunately, I already had tickets to fly to San Francisco for the week.
I can’t usually go very long without a trip, without escaping monotony and routine, without leaving my comfort zone.
Travel has been an essential element of my life since I was three, when our family uprooted to a different continent. From that moment, we traveled somewhere new, usually a different country, nearly every year. It was, and is, a privilege many cannot afford nor plan for.
Maybe being nomadic is in my blood. As far back as I can trace my heritage, each generation of my family has lived in a different country. It was usually a necessary move for work or to escape persecution. My generation is different. Every time I leave is a choice, a conscious decision to expand awareness and open doors. Traveling, to me, is a drug – no – it’s oxygen – it’s necessary for my survival.
See, some people have a craft or a sport, some have video games or their social circle, and some have, for better or worse, a drug. But whatever it is, it’s meditative.
My meditation is the unknown. It’s discovering and exploring, it’s learning by experiencing.
I travel to think and feel. I travel to discover new ways to love the known, and the unknown.
