I’m working days that have me leaving home in the dark and driving back with the same lights on my bike to shine the way through dusk, gloves no longer optional, as Holland is approaching a grey and dull winter at high speed.
Everywhere around me is travel.
My best friend is booking her first solo trip to Southeast Asia, leaving in a few months. A good friend and coworking has just left for India. My brother and his girlfriend are planning to go to Bali before the year is over. And in a matter of weeks another brother will have emigrated to Brazil.
And it itches – like that scratch on the roof of your mouth that would heal if only you would stop tonging it, but you can’t.
I NEED a fix!
I wake up after dreaming of back there and feel numb for the whole day. Someone asks me how I’m doing and I respond with “Working hard, but it’s OK because it’s financing my next trip.” And then I come home after a hard days work, to endulge into rewriting and reliving my journals, flipping through that same Lonely Planet that was my bible for months, staring at pictures of a time where I was so intensely happy over just being.
The first week of December I have a little escape plan taking me to Paris. But that hardly counts, as it’s just a 4-hour trainride away. And I’ve been so often that it more feels like a visit than a vacation.
I bowed my head over my savingsaccount again and where it might be taking me any time soon. Not counting my college-loan, I should be out of the red by newyears. So that’s when the actual saving can start.
I set a 10.000 euro goal so I can leave and live for at least a year. But getting there will take me at least a year.
Why did I not start traveling sooner?! Another one of the great regrets of my life.
And as I’m writing this, during my break, my boss comes over to tell me she gave me a raise. Just a few cents the hour, but in one month, it adds up to one Ha Long Bay trip or four days in a bungalow on Koh Tao. And suddenly I’m feeling half as heavy.
[tales to be looking out for]
That evening I come home, take care of the litterbox, the dishes, and feed my cats. With a micro-heated plate I sit myself down behind the screen and thrice the weight pulls down on me again.
Outside a flickering light glides through the cloudy night sky. From far above an aeroplane reminds me of my hopes and dreams, while I’m stuck here living the homelife.
I’m a terrible writer.
I suck at spelling for one, both in my own language as well as in english.
I’ve tried many times, but really can’t do fiction. And it’s not that I lack the imagination. I just can’t make up stories worth the print.
I’m not ambitious enough to be a journalist.
But I do very much love to put onto paper the tales that make up my life. And I’ve been told to have a poetic and vivacious way with words.
I’m not a blogger. I’m a non-fiction-story teller.
This is not a blog. It’s more like a journal. My job in this is just to make sure my life is as exciting as possible.
Anyway, the moral of this story: travel is addicting.
And I’m very glad to be entertaining you readers, and am very grateful you find my stories so far worth coming back for. Let’s hear it for the audience!
Now let me get back to Luang Prabang and to telling you of the best day ever.
[link following soon, promise!]
PS. Did you notice I got a facebook sidekick? Love for likes @ facebook.com/MeerTells