Recently I’ve found myself feeling desperate for travel. The idea of moving to a foreign place and indulging in new food, new friends, and a new culture is fabulously appealing to me. I’ve found myself daydreaming about packing a single suitcase with some vintage scarfs and pretty dresses and hopping on a plane to a new adventure. Part of me wonders if this is a reptilian reaction–a way of running from my problems or escaping the reality of life after school. I’ve never had much interest in being a tourist but I’ve realized that I am extremely interesting in living in new places. The fear and excitement bundled with the rush of being surrounded by so much “new” is absolutely exhilarating. I liken the feeling to something like jumping off the high dive. You know you’ll be safe and have a blast but you’re frightened nonetheless; the height seems insurmountable until you just make the leap and realize it wasn’t so bad after all.
I’ve found that the bigger my blog has become, the less personal it is. Sometimes it’s difficult to share your secrets with so many strangers–whether or not it is through a computer screen. I’m struggling with my future plans and I can honestly say that I have too many options right now. As a senior in college, everyone seems to have advice for me. Some of this advice is good while some is overbearing and unnecessary. I’m at a point in my life where I need to listen to myself rather than follow the plan set forth for me by my friends, parents, and well-meaning strangers. As odd as it may seem, by forging my own path I often feel as though I’m disappointing the people around me. It is not often that you find someone so determined to listen to their heart. I’m afraid of making the wrong decision and somehow finding myself “stuck. Stuck in a meaningless job or relationship. Stuck in my hometown or a strange city. Stuck with personality flaws.
So my remedy to these fears? Apparently my heart wants to solve all of my problems by dreaming of foreign places–Effiel towers, sandy beaches, crowded markets, and old brick buildings. I dream of cobblestone streets, historic monuments, and classic art. I dream of a place where I don’t know anyone and cannot speak the language. I dream of fine food with names that I cannot pronounce and I dream of the adventure that is generally accompanied by a bit of loneliness. I never used to be a dreamer. My whole life I have been proud of the fact that I am a realist. But now that life is becoming a bit too “real” for me, my dreams are pushing their way back to the surface. If I let them win, I’d be on a plane tomorrow with my single suitcase in hand.