Wanderlust.

I've fantasised about this trip since as long as I can remember. 

I think I was 6 months old the first time I boarded a plane. When I was eleven I would stare outside of the class room window and day dream about hopping onto the next departing plane in search of adventure (kind of like Huckleberry Finn but without the great big hulking black man).


I was ten when my great grandmother bought me my first ever journal. She told me that every experience and every emotion was worth remembering. She was the most beautiful woman and her passion for books and literature was something that she passed onto so many.


Benjamin Franklin said;

"Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing."

This is where my grandmothers love of literature and my mothers passion for new cultures collide within me and I find myself selfishly wanting both. This is the year that I'm able to do all the things that I love and that bring me joy and to do it for no one else but myself.


If I had any doubts about travelling, they were surely removed after I went to Europe for six weeks with my parents when I was seventeen. I knew from that point on, that just like Kerouac, the road was where I belonged.


With only 8 weeks until I leave, I've never been more sure about anything before in my entire life. I've throughly enjoyed every tiny part of the planning process. Being able to decide over soaking up the sun in Barcelona or avoiding yellow snow in Switzerland has been one of many recent small pleasures.


Nothing about this trip belongs to someone else, it's entirely mine.
Ultimately, I'm writing this blog because when it's all over and it's time for me to come back home and cuddle my mum, I'll be able to find those parts of myself that came out while I was totally immersed in philosophical bullshit.