The other night I had a flashback so vivid, my heart still aches a little. It was a fraction of a fraction of a moment -- my hand reaching into my open backpack to rifle through the collection of travel clothes that got me through four months in Europe -- but it's set my little heart a-flutter.
It's so long since I travelled in any real sense of the term, and I'm surrounded by people adventuring: Nat's coming to visit, friends from work are flitting about the globe. And here I am, saddling myself up with a mortgage. I want to get somewhere new, and I have no work lined up for September. We move in October. Can I ... should I direct much-needed downpayment funds towards a frivolous self-adventure?
I'm torn. Truly torn.
I want hostels and pensions and cheap roadside food and the blankness of utter language deficiency. The best option open to me is a solo road trip through the northern States. Is that going to be enough?
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