The Roots

I would be hard pressed to recall a time I did not enjoy traveling. Okay, there was one particularly awful YMCA summer camp, but one week out of life when you’re 10 years old? Could be worse. My youth was full of Girl Scout camping trips to Big Bear, family excursions in O.J. (the orange hippie van) to the likes of The Grand Canyon, and ALOT of sleepovers on the neighborhood trampoline. Near or far, one unifying memory I have from all of those experiences is that I always slept beneath the stars with no tent ceiling in between. I got such a rush from gazing at the dazzling patchwork above, the sheer expanse fairly buzzing with the prospect of boundless future possibilities out there in the world as I drifted to sleep.

The Tree

As an adult I have been lucky enough to keep company with other adventurous souls who abet, humor, and cultivate my wandering ways. A question I often get when catching up with someone I haven’t seen in a while is, “Where’s your next trip, Polly?” And the truth is, I get pretty depressed when I don’t have a colorful reply. Those who love me (and therefore put up with me) are awfully understanding when I announce that it’s time to visit a new country in order to keep my happiness and sanity intact. No startling revelation here, but I truly find the immersion in  different cultures the best way to keep life perspective.

The Leaves

Many people have suggested I try my hand at travel writing. Turns out that is the dream of about 75% of humanity, so you could say the market is a little saturated.  Nonetheless, my hope is this website will be the kick in the rear to persevere. And maybe someday, after I’ve logged some blogs (rhymes purely unintentional and not a ploy to showcase my literary talents), I just might actually get paid to stay in a favela in Brazil or a guesthouse in Bangladesh. Or maybe not, but I’ll still go.