According to www.whereivebeen.com, I’ve seen 8% of the world. If I’m 32 years old, which I must painfully admit that I am, I have a lot of making up to do. My brother, who is the more diligent writer on this blog, has been to 25 countries in his 27 years of life. He got a jump on me because caught the wanderlust at age 16, and I’m not sure I’ll ever catch up.
As we left Colombia earlier this week, my oldest son was insisting that we come back someday. As much as I’d like to, I’m not sure we ever will… at least not to the same city. I already have a sailing trip from Panama’s San Blas Islands to the walled Colombian port city of Cartagena very high on my travel priority list, but I’m not sure life will allow me a second trip to Medellin.
It’s kind of sad to think of it that way… but I like to think of it as footprints. Each place we’ve traveled, we’ve left little remnants behind – a friendship, toys and goodies for children, a carving in a tree (the authorities in the parque de los descalzos stopped me before I could get my trademark heart carved into a bamboo stalk). And those places have similarly left an impression on me – ciclids nibbling at my legs at a Mayan swimming hole in Belize, the sparkle of the crown jewels in the Tower of London, the drooping ears and scarred faces of Masai warriors in Tanzania.
I have pictures, but who needs them? The memories that I have of our travels and adventure experiences are my some of my fondest treasures, and even if I never return, I’ll always have them.
Travel is not just for the uber-rich, it’s for the uber-desirous. Wanderlust with us.