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I hang from the final limb of a family tree of generations of unintentional travelers--exiles, refugees, displaced people.
My first journey--involuntary--took place less than a year after my birth. While I don't remember the details, it's as if I've often relived that entire experience, because my parents and their friends talked about it all their lives. I grew up with stories of exile--stories of adventure.
And then I started living my own adventures.
In India, I learned that to Indians the way I mourned my husband was far less personal than their custom of dropping cremated bodies into a river; in Japan, that my ancestors could find me in the oddest of circumstances. In Bhutan, I found family, and in Namibia I learned to ease my fears of being trapped in my own past.
I travel because it touches something deep inside of me. Because it connects me to who I am. To who I was. To the world.
And because I can't imagine not traveling.
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