I like traveling. I also hate it.
Now, before you write me off as completely crazy (I take it for granted you already regard me as slightly), let me explain.
I like traveling. I like this part:
You know, doing something you’ve only seen in movies. For me, this involved, yes, getting my picture taken inside a red phone booth. Forgive me, I lose all fear of being a cliched traveler when confronted by such things. Mario is fascinated by other sorts of things. See:
Yes, yellow school buses. For us, they are ubiquitous and not particularly noteworthy. For him, they
are were something he had only seen in movies.
You know, finding myself in places I had only seen in photos. The Arc de Triomphe, the glass pyramid at the Louvre, the Eiffel Tower, La Sagrada Familia, Parc Guell, etc.
I love learning new languages, eating new foods, soaking up the culture. My mom experienced a fried calamari sandwich in Madrid. I’ve eaten steak tartare in France, jamón serrano in Spain, and super fresh prawns in Lisbon.
You may be thinking, Um, Kaley, it really seems as though you do like traveling. All of it. What gives?
What gives, my friend? I’ll tell you what gives: I hate the part in which I actually have to get from place. I don’t particularly love buses, airpots, and impatient tourists waiting in long lines. I could deal without Ryan Air’s famous “customer service.” I really don’t care for jet lag.
(Side note: this graphic is so true!)
In about a week (October 25th, to be exact), Mario will be packing his bags into a car, then a bus, and finally a plane to cross the Atlantic. Once he has done all that, he’ll arrive 8 hours later, only to pack his bags into yet another vehicle and drive 3 more hours. He’ll finally arrive at my house, something like 18 hours after he started. And he’s lucky. It’s a direct flight.
I’ve mentioned on occasion that I wouldn’t mind teleportation being invented. Any day now.