I calmly considered all the obvious logic that might have prevented me from buying the one-way ticket, but something kept pushing me towards this adventure. I knew if I wanted to get my business back on track, I needed to spend some serious time alone with my thoughts.
Though it would be far from my first solo trip to a far-flung place, it was different than the others. I was listening closely, for once, to the echoes of history, as well as to the people I met. Less of the hair-tossing yoga girl I was in India at 25 (though I love her, too) and more the family-lore-loving listener, aiming to just connect with other humans. Alone but not alone.
Part of me leaving like this, with so much in flux, felt bratty. It was indignant and solipsistic. It was saying, "Of all the things I want in life but that are out of my reach, (aisles, delivery rooms, firework-crusted career success, endless world travel) world travel is the one that I can grasp for myself. Right now."
But questionable motives aside, I also knew that travel heals you, in its own way. To be lost and dirty, to be hungry and queasy and to be language-dumb, means to soon after be cared for, welcomed in, shared with, fed til you're stuffed to the gills and your eyes are crinkly from laughter.
