Even though I feel like my “life on the road” ended (at least for now) a couple of months ago, here I am again, my bag on my shoulder, entering another coffee place to wait for hours for another cheap mean of transportation. May be life on the road will never stop. May be I just have to accept that it’s in me and part of me. And that’s how I know it’s time. Time to start writing. All those people I have met, all those amazing characters deserve to have their stories told. I have been asked to write when I was on the road. I was too busy absorbing it all to be able to have any kind of thought about what I was living. Now it’s time to put the pen to the paper. From my comfortable chair in another comfortable European city, it’s time to talk about the dust and the heat, the animals and the muscle sores of the thousand lives I got the chance of living while on the road.
And I know a travel blog is supposed to be the stories of amazing adventures. It’s the exaltation of endless opportunities, amazing people, breathtaking views. But I’m writing it from afar, and I feel good about it. It seems the more you move away from that time in your life, the more you cherish it. A traveler is who I am. I have the scars and the tattoos to prove it. And having been on the road THAT much THAT young is both amazing and scary. On the one hand, sure, I’ve already accomplished so much. No matter what happens next, no matter how much I screw up, I will have done THAT, be that. No one can ever take it away from me. But on the other hand, what if that was it. That was the biggest achievement, the thing I will be the proudest about ? It the high of you life happens at 25, it’s only downhill from there, and that is just not working for me. Life on the road is forever.