A smokey watering hole, cheap beer, and that second of contented silence when the laughter subsides and before the next joke is told, it hits you: the pure happiness of that moment, and the significance lent to that moment in knowing that it won't last forever.
Or, maybe it isn't smiling around a table in a faraway bar but instead, sitting on a faraway beach, or on a dusty faraway pavement looking up at the stars, when you experience that sensation which, for me, defines what it is to travel. Suddenly something which felt so normal is rendered with near palpable importance in an abrupt and bitter sweet realization that you are experiencing something unique. You will never be in this place again, sharing a cigarette with this person again, thousands of miles away from that life you call home.
And in that moment you make a memory.
We live this life because we love the transitory, we love to travel, reveling in the unexpected; we are addicted to '' being on the road'', to the idea of weaving our way down the winding path into a sun setting on the distant horizon. The existence you chose when you live on the other side of the world is exciting, it's intoxicating, it's challenging and presents you with the extraordinary privilege of meeting people you never dreamed existed.
But, by choosing to be someone who is always seeking something new and different, you also make the choice to say goodbye. Which hurts. Every time. Each goodbye becoming a goodbye to every person you have ever said farewell to. Sometimes it seems that it would be easier to avoid making attachments all together and treat those you meet as you would ships in the night, content in never knowing what could have been, rather than getting a glimpse of something before it disappears into the impossibility of distance.
But what is the cost of not daring?
The answer is, to forfeit something beautiful.
There is nothing quite like the intensity of a connection made in an elsewhere. There is nothing quite like the beauty of sharing a storm with stranger. There is nothing quite like the pain in watching someone who has become part of who you will be forever, shrug on their backpack and walk away, not knowing how or if you will meet again.
The intensity if a connection matches that of the beauty shared in the 2nd storm with that stranger when your paths cross again, which they certainly will if a bond was made. There is nothing quite like the joy and happiness seeing someone who has become a part of you walk towards you, with their backpack slung on their shoulder not knowing which bar to head for a mojito, a beer or a fabulous cup of tea. Beautiful writing Miss Wallace Bowman... beautiful days!!
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