Friday, November 23, 2007

What a wild, crazy ride it's been

OK, so I have decided to give this blog another shot. I just needed to take the pressure off to write about travelling, something I wasn't motivated to do because - as ashamed as I am to admit it - the travelling bug has slowly left my bed.

But then it came back. Perhaps it was a dream I had, walking around some charmingly scruffy British city, or hearing about Xmas from my friends in Vienna and Paris. But it has come back - not in full force and I am sort of glad, I feel I am settling down more which is a relief in a sense (and something I will soon talk about it my other blog, next week, so check that space) but it is still there. Slightly itchy feet, more that I love to reminisce and dream about going places rather than actually going there (because I know the reality would not transcribe).

Regardless, I am back and promise to start writing more, if not for you, then for me. To keep the spirit alive, to keep dreams and beauty and curiousity alive and to indulge my writing sense, which I feel has been neglected on the whole for the last few months (it's ironic when you have nothing but time in the world to write, writing is the last thing you want to do. It ceases to become art when you feel like you SHOULD do it, rather than want to).

The reason for this post is looking at my bookshelf. I have many travel books, all lined up in neat little rows, proudly displayed badges. Many of them are non-fiction travelouges which I've read or have been meaning to read, while others are an assortment of Lonely Planet, Let's God and Moon handbooks.

My eyes spy the book at the top, a thick juicy copy of Let's Go Italy 2007. Below it is a ragged, torn copy of Lonely Planet's Australia...2000.

Seven years ago I bought that book, my first travel book, in preperation for the first backpacking trip I would take. From Australia to Italy, it is amazing to think (to me anyway) that seven full years have passed.

And yet, I feel like I haven't seen anything. My books, countless photographs, saved postcards and maxed-out credit cards would say otherwise but years and I feel like I am starting at ground zero. I feel there is so much I haven't seen still, and I fear I may never see it all. Of course, Europe is starting to bore me a little bit (sounds so snobby to say that but it's true - though the cities, especially in WINTER for some reason, are still tickling my fancy) and I do feel like I've seen enough of the West Coast of North America (Mexico, ESPECIALLY). But places I have never been, like Africa - which, since I was 8, has been the be all and end all to my travels - are starting to stir my senses and old places, New Zealand to be particular, are starting to pull me back.

I know I will get to all these places (again) in due time, it's just the reality of my life and the responsibilities of the future occasionally raise their head and make me wonder if it will ever happen.

I know it will. It's just been such a long, crazy ride from the reckless, selfish backpacking around OZ when I was 18 to the looming "adulthood" of my (soon to be) 26 years.

On to the next stage...