Sometimes, shhhh, I get sick of being a backpacker.
I get sick of long days. I get sick of 12 hour days on buses, on getting up early to catch the first bus, on eating bruised fruit and things you’re not really sure what they are at bizarre rest stops, on long, inefficient border crossings, on children laughing at my accent, on the work of it all. I love it – the discoveries of myself and other cultures, but sometimes, like today, I just wish I was at home with all the comforts of my life there – Thai food only a phone call away, hot water whenever I want it, clean clothes, a cute cat, friends, family, my love.
It sounds silly to call backpacking work, and it’s not work, but it’s not easy. I remember breaking down in tears in the basement of the Louvre, hating it all, hating Paris, just wanting to be home. But then I went out that night with my new sweet roommates, learned to like red wine, and got drunk underneath the Eiffel Tower. And those are the memories we’re really craving.
So I’ll keep on getting ripped off and stressed and not having my ATM card work and calling the States to no answer and lugging around too much stuff and dealing with roommates and bunk beds and strange food and all of it – just so I can really learn who I am and what the world truly is all about.