Once bitten

In previous blogs, I've often alluded to the notion that I'm a well-versed traveller. Now approaching my 30s (eep!), I've got a bevy of locales under my belt and no dearth of stories to tell. Anyone will tell you that travel is addictive, and the reason is simple: it's an escape. An escape from life's problems, monotony, responsibility, normality, you name it. You become a version of yourself from an alternate universe: one who is elbowing your way through the throng in Tokyo or fleeing from wild bulls in Pamplona.

This isn't you! This is new you. Better you. The you who does things people wouldn't expect. You feel licensed to adventure, simply because you're there. If you invited me to swim with sharks off the coast of St Kilda, I'd shoot you down before you'd finished your sentence. But if we were out on the beaches of Honolulu, high off the ecstasy that is travel? Suit me up, cousin.

Like it does for many things we love, sadly, life does get in the way. My vacationing days are far and few between now, because there are bills to pay and mouths to feed. My mouth, specifically, which has unfortunately developed a taste for overpriced meals that make my wallet thin and my belly fat. Over are the days of flitting about the Earth for months on end, and I wonder where the time has gone.

After all, I'm only 26... Why do I feel 50?

But I'll fight on as hard as I can. If I can't set foot on foreign soil, I'll at least revisit the holidays of my past. Call this blog self-therapy, if you will. The mental unshackling of an imprisoned man. It's my chance to get off the road to nowhere, and back on the travelator. Come along for the ride, yeah?