Sixteen. That’s how many flights I have been on in the past two months.
I’ve seen Les Misérables live in London, been bathed in Istanbul, met GRiZ in Switzerland, and flew home to Chicago for a party. It’s been a fun ride. But, I’m tired now.
All too often people don’t talk about travel in an honest way. You see, it’s not all sunshine and butterflies. It’s delayed flights and heavy backpacks. It’s a fair share of blisters and having all of your credit cards blocked in Turkey. It’s racing to the airport Thursday after class, and racing back to class Monday morning. Then it’s three days of planning your next trip before it starts all over again.
I know I do a great job of making all of my weekend trips sound spontaneous, but in reality each is a culmination of hours of researching, planning and reading reviews. Anyone who has traveled with me knows that I can make an itinerary like no other. My travel planning sessions always involve at least fifteen open tabs, and typically end in a headache. In fact, I’ve taken Advil more often after a night of planning than a night of drinking. Not sure if I’m proud or not.
Don’t get me wrong, I love it. Every damn minute. The scars from my blisters and dents in my bank account are my badges of honor, and every mishap is just another story to tell.
But, I am not afraid to admit that I am tired, and maybe just a little burned out.
The last two months have been incredible. They have left me speechless, and simultaneously have turned me into a storyteller. There is plenty more to come; I still have Italy to conquer, Malta to celebrate my birthday in, Ibiza to party on all weekend and Morocco to visit, just to name a few. But, for these next two weeks, it’s time to play in Barcelona.