When I was young, my parents used to pack a tent in their Fiat, along with items they could barter and trade with, make me comfortable in the backseat, and set out on long road trips from Poland to Turkey, Greece and elsewhere. Some of these road trips were months long, and although I don’t remember much, I do remember feeling happy, stretched out on that back seat, window open, hair blowing in the wind.
The urge to travel hasn’t abated. I’ve lived in Poland, Japan, England and Canada; travelled via plane, train and automobile, with a backpack or a suitcase, a camera, often with very little money, and other times with a little bit more. I’ve slept in bus booths, on train station floors, on my backpack between train carriages, at airports, on benches, but mostly in tents and hostels. I like sleeping in a tent, waking up on a dewey morning, bundling up in a warm jumper and sipping fresh coffee outside.
I read. I walk a lot.
I rarely have the desire to return home at the end of a trip.
Home Sweet Everywhere.
