A journey is a person in itself; no two are alike. And all plans, safeguards, policing, and coercion are fruitless. We find that after years of struggle that we do not take a trip; a trip takes us. – John Steinbeck
I was musing over travel the last few weeks, and how a lot of my good friends are going to South America in the new few months. It seems the hot place to go to right now, like South East Asia was a few years ago.
I started thinking if my backpack could talk, the stories it would tell.
I have lent out my backpack to a few people in its lifetime, and I have been to some quirky places myself.
If my backpack could speak, it would tell of stories trekking through the crowded streets of India, or trekking at an elevation of 2500 metres in Indonesia. If it could talk, it would tell of stories trudging through dirty compartments in the bellies of random buses in Australia, and London. If it could jabber, it would tell me of encounters in strange countries where it went off without me (on the back of some friend of mine).
I love the idea of having items from different parts of the world. Although I always forget to purchase a souvenir when I am travelling, I do have stains on my backpack from one place or another which sticks for a while.
I also have rips and tears on my backpack that remind me of random strangers, and meet ups in different parts of the world.
Whenever I notice those irremovable stains or tears, I feel reminiscent as a flood of memories pours into my mind. I remember a lot of random details of my time with travel. My backpack reminds me of all the adventures I have been and all the adventures yet to come.
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