It was just six months ago I was in India, finding my way around Delhi and Varanasi and Mumbai. I’d saved and planned for that trip for years, and it was everything I’d imagined and more.
And here I am, half a year later, distracting myself more than I’d care to admit by pricing out airline tickets to various corners of the globe.
It’s a sickness, people. My passport expires next year, and I still have too many blank pages.
So I’m dreaming again. Dreaming of what next trip I want to take (the question someone asked me before my flight to Delhi even left the gate…). And instead of being honed in on a single next destination, like I was with India, I’m literally all over the map.
The idea of a Nordic Tour sounds sort of amazing. How cool would it be to see Reykjavik? And Oslo…and Helsinki, and Stockholm? To see pristine white mountains, deep blue seas. To wear wool sweaters and sturdy boots and drink warm cider or cold beer in a pub filled with locals. Like India, I’m drawn to it simply because it’s different – to see a part of the world so unique, so unlike any other space on the planet. I’d need at least a couple of weeks to do it right, a couple weeks of vacation time I don’t currently have – so maybe also like India, this is one I’ll have to plan for, to hold on to the vision in my mind’s eye for a few years before I’m headed that way.
Now that I’ve flown literally around the globe once, doing it again doesn’t seem like too big a deal. Doing it and landing in a place that speaks English sounds quite appealing, indeed. So another place I’ve been clicking around travel sites for in my wanderlust is Sydney, Australia. In quite the opposite case of what appeals to me about traveling to Iceland and beyond, I’m attracted to the familiarity of Australia. The essentially Western culture, with the expected Aussie influences. The potential to experience a city, with sidetrips to a wild outback. Australia would be OK.
But beyond all of these, I’m most dreaming of a getaway to Paris. I’ve only been once – nearly 10 years ago, and only for 36 hours – and recently, with India checked off on the travel To Do List, I’ve been daydreaming of a long weekend in the most magical city in the world. I’d rent a room or a small studio via AirBnB. I’d brush up on my college French and listen to nothing but Edith Piaf for weeks before leaving. I’d eat baguettes in the Tuileries while Parisians wandered by; I’d rediscover the Place des Vosges, the square I stumbled into when I was there last. I’d drink espresso and wine at street cafes, and I’d fill a journal with my wandering thoughts. Doesn’t it sound divine?
I have neither the funds nor the time to take any of these trips at the moment. But no matter. For now, just dreaming about where I’ll jet off to next will have to do.
