Traveling

Aan de Utrechtse grachten on Flickr ©Jthole

I love the idea of holidays. It's probably something to do with books and tv - there's this dreamy faraway fantasy of culture, nightlife, excitement, and foreign things. You picture yourself wandering the streets, striking up conversations with strangers, indulging in crazy wild behaviour and just trying all sorts of new stuff.

Somehow when I actually get there, that all vanishes from my mind. As kids, we'd whine and moan and grumble if we had to step out of the hotel. The whole holiday was confined to a tiny radius of the hotel, the restaurant, the swimming pool and sometimes the adjoining beach.

Things have definitely changed. I try a lot harder to soak up the atmosphere, preferring to get up early and explore somewhere than while the hours away in the hotel room. But no matter what, I couldn't possibly last on a vacation for more than a week. When I actually arrive at my destination and do all the required touring and shopping, a part of me just feels aimless. It's that lonely feeling of being a world-weary traveler, country-hopping and sleeping in hotel rooms alone. It scares me and depresses me.

In the end, the whole jetsetter fantasy evaporates. I just want to go home. Most of all, I'm glad I go on holiday with my family and friends. No backpacking for me.

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We were almost filthy rich. Dad wanted to buy 4D for my car number 7440, but he forgot. It came out as the first prize yesterday.