those damn itchy feet

The itchy feet have struck again.  They are like a plague, some kind of warped obsession, an obsession that has me scouring, my mind whirling with the possibilities and the wildly exhilarating knowledge that I have enough in my account at this moment to just grab a flight and go. Vancouver, Tokyo, Tahiti, maybe Chile? Reading the checked baggage conditions and the flight times quickens my heartbeat, and my mind flits to the backpack that hangs in my wardrobe at home. I begin to think what I would take, a bikini, and a pair of jeans, mascara, make up wipes. My mind is already formulating the list, whirring with excitement. Jandals and my journal would be thrown in, a pencil and a glue stick too. My passport would be rummaged from the drawer, the bed made and left, empty.

I look at travel photos of friends on Facebook and I am jealous. So jealous! Enticingly wild photos of rice fields in Vietnam, back flips into the azure water of the Croatian coast, hot street food in Denmark. I feel the familiar rush of thirst for the unknown, for those parts of the map not yet ticked, as yet unseen, just curved lines on paper as far as I know. I want to breathe the spices of Africa, see those cherry blossoms in Japan, eat chimichangas in México, feel the sticky heat of a summer evening in Shanghai. I am hungry for change again. But for now, I guess the snowy view of the mountains is pretty good.


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