My Turn to Travel

"How did I end up here?" I think as I tap my pen on the desk's edge. It is only an hour into my day and I am downtrodden by the fact that I have not seen sunlight. This is my life. Awake before the winter sun, I left home while it was still dark and will return after the sun has gone to bed. The hours in-between will be spent in a windowless cube under lightbulbs writing about how others can get the life they want.

This was the practical choice. A job that would pay my bills and give me professional experience I could proudly list on my resume. An opportunity for independence during an economy that eats up college graduates and spits them out into jobs where they sell clothes or make coffee. The only problem is that I have to remind myself I want to be here.

In the break room I make a cup of tea, watching the liquid swirl into a dark whirlpool. Lactose intolerant, I recall the last time I drank real milk. A thick concoction of spices and cream handed to me by a 90-year-old Maasai grandmother as we crouched on the floor of her hut. Later that night after jumping with her warrior sons who wore sandals made from old tires, I would shower under a night sky with swirling stars so present I finally understood why our galaxy is called the Milky Way.

It is over two years since that trip to Tanzania. A month that left me with a journal scribbled full of notes, new friendships that continue on, and an exhausting bout of Malaria. But most of all, I was left with itchy feet and wide eyes. A festering feeling that made practical life with only two weeks of vacation a year impossible to live.

"How did I end up here?" I think as I stomp my feet on the floor of the train as I write this essay. Miles away from the confining darkness I left in Minnesota, this is my life. Stretching out on the sand at Bondi Beach. Freezing at Cradle Mountain as I volunteer with Tasmanian Devils. Making friends with other travelers in Australian hostels when I am tired of wandering the streets solo.

I have learned that the worse days can make the best dinner party stories. That when I am trapped at an airport by a delayed flight it is an opportunity to commiserate with new friends. Realizing that my reaction is the difference between an inconvenience and a mess. This is what I have been able to do because I am here instead of there. Because one workday I stopped ignoring myself and finally bought that airplane ticket.

So what about you? How did you end up here? And are you happy?