“You could go right now, but I don’t think you’re ready,” he said. How insane for someone else to tell me that I’m not ready?
Tourists: they’re everywhere. You can spot them in a flash. Why? Usually they’re taking photos of everything. I don’t like to call myself a tourist, but rather try to use the word “traveler.” I’m afraid to associate myself with this stereotype of people who tend to disrespect cultures and order food loudly in slow English.
On Sunday, I’m taking a plane to the great African country of Morocco to visit one of my very best friends. This will be my first time in Africa. Since it’s so close to Europe, does it really count as Africa? Yes, yes it does.
Part 3 of this series is the final part until I develop new, weird symptoms or I am a few years out, writing a reflection piece. Continue reading
A few years ago, I was on a connecting flight from Little Rock to Albany, on one of those teensy planes for people flying from one weird place to another. The woman who had the aisle seat next to me looked either tired or distraught about something that wasn’t any of my business, but she turned to me anyway and explained that she was on this plane because her sister had just died. She was heading to her funeral.
After traveling to different places and constantly shifting gears to change with the locations and people I’m surrounded by, I can’t help but get a little depressed every time I must leave to take on a new adventure, despite the excitement that comes with it. I fill my head with questions such as “Will I ever be back here” and “When I come back, will anything be the same? Will the same people be alive? Will I be able to visit the same places?”