Seasons In Exile

                “When I was your age, I had a wife, two kids, and a career.”  My Grandfather is concise. He does not understand why a person in my position would want to leave the stability of home, and head out into a much larger, uncertain world. A man of his generation strove for different things, it would seem; used a different barometer to measure the success of a life. I love and respect this man, but I do not agree with him.

                This was to be my farewell dinner. I was going away, perhaps for a long time. There was no set timetable, no clear date of return. All I knew was that I was leaving, feeling the call, the pull of travel. It would not be my first time abroad. I had been to Europe before. It was calling me, demanding I return. I was only too happy to heed the call.

                Travel is an amazing thing. You leave behind everything you know, everything that is familiar, and immerse yourself in the foreign. Languages change, customs differ, food excites the senses. There are national treasures to be seen in museums and landscapes to be discovered down seldom trodden laneways. Every day brings with it something new, be it an experience, an idea, a meal, a sip of wine; every day breathes wonder and life into those who dare to leave the comforts of home, and live as vagabonds.

                I have explained this to people time and time again. Many agree with the sentiment, but have not dared to try the reality themselves. Others disagree entirely. A smaller, select group know of exactly what I speak. Those with the Urge for Going. Vagabondage. Freedom. Call it what you will.

                And so it was, that I found myself with my rucksack on my back, and a ticket in my hand, waiting for the silver-winged chariot which was to take me to a faraway place. I was going once again, living another season in exile. I bid those close to me a very fond adieu. I knew that I would miss them dearly as I made my way through the world. Miss them, but still exalt in where I was and what I would be doing there.

                What will follow are but snippets, postcards of the mind, warm recollections of those heady days, when I lived abroad, out of a travel sack. I didn’t heed my Grandfather’s advice. I went out into the world, and made memories worth more than all the aspirations of his generation. It was well worth it.  After all, memories are the best things we will ever have.