Wanderlust

The two worst things about backpacking? Leaving, and coming home.
I remember leaving quite vividly. It was the first time I had flown in almost two years and was freaking out over it. Back in 2010, I was somewhat a nervous flyer. It was also the first time I was travelling anywhere alone.
I had planned this trip for the better part of eight months, but no one tells you about that moment, 20-year-old you is hugging your parents goodbye at an airport for a month. I'll admit, I cried.
I was wound up tightly for the entire plane journey - which wasn't made easy by the fact I had to run after security to my gate. Luckily, Edinburgh is quite a small airport (although I still ended up last person on the flight).
But that sadness is eclipsed by the one that arises from coming home.
In almost every last night in a hostel, I would stay up relatively late and talk to people, sad that my two day old acquaintances were about to come to an end.
My very last night was in a hostel in Naples, run by an Australian family. On that night, I didn't sleep. I stayed up chatting to other travellers, some whose lives were so very different from my own, and got valuable life advice on almost every subject, heard some of the funniest stories I couldn't breathe for laughing so hard and didn't want the night to end.
Morning meant home, reality.
And the realisation that once you start travelling you can't seem to stop, is one of the equally happiest and saddest things. Because you're always going to have that last night.