I love everything about traveling. I love airports, bustling united nations with people everywhere, some running, some sitting, some sleeping, the coming and going. I love airplanes. When I stare at the night sky and see that blinking light making its way through the stars I just want to know where is that plane going? I always want to be on it. People flying to a vacation, business meeting, wedding, reunion, funeral. Who knows. I love flipping through my passport- each stamp a story. Those Cambodian officials, so serious and militant, professional stampers- smiles and welcomes, um, not here. That Laos stamp. Four hours at the Vietnamese border, papers, signatures, currency exchanges, finally walking across some invisible line that means a new country, new people, new language, new money, new customs. To the next bus with my hungover Irish comrades and posse of pasty white Swedes. That Thailand stamp- started with a rickety van in Laos, jump in the back of a truck, quick drive to the river, exit stamp, sprint to the canoe, two minute float across the Mekong, one minute 'til the Thai border shack closes, money flying across the counter, new stamp, just in time for the last van to Chiang Mai. The Singapore stamp. Why do you have wine in your bag? There is no alcohol allowed across the border. It's come all the way from Burma- I didn't know, Thailand and Malaysia didn't seem to care. Ok, just this one time. Hindsight. Tasted like vinegar and should have left it for those Burmese cockroaches at the Golden Guesthouse. India stamp. You are now outside of your comfort zone and there is no better feeling. Overland entry: hello Nepal, I didn't know you were a dust bowl. Airway exit: Holy Buddha, I hope we clear those 8000 meter peaks. Some stamps are fading, the first layer in a building collage of ink and color, dates and ballpoint scribbles, initials, official authorizations. Peru, Ireland, Costa Rica, Amsterdam layovers. Always back to the US. Welcome Home, Miss Tracy... I never left. The world is my home and I have 12 fresh pages newly sewn into my passport-sized, personal story book.
I love everything about traveling. I love airports, bustling united nations with people everywhere, some running, some sitting, some sleeping, the coming and going. I love airplanes. When I stare at the night sky and see that blinking light making its way through the stars I just want to know where is that plane going? I always want to be on it. People flying to a vacation, business meeting, wedding, reunion, funeral. Who knows. I love flipping through my passport- each stamp a story. Those Cambodian officials, so serious and militant, professional stampers- smiles and welcomes, um, not here. That Laos stamp. Four hours at the Vietnamese border, papers, signatures, currency exchanges, finally walking across some invisible line that means a new country, new people, new language, new money, new customs. To the next bus with my hungover Irish comrades and posse of pasty white Swedes. That Thailand stamp- started with a rickety van in Laos, jump in the back of a truck, quick drive to the river, exit stamp, sprint to the canoe, two minute float across the Mekong, one minute 'til the Thai border shack closes, money flying across the counter, new stamp, just in time for the last van to Chiang Mai. The Singapore stamp. Why do you have wine in your bag? There is no alcohol allowed across the border. It's come all the way from Burma- I didn't know, Thailand and Malaysia didn't seem to care. Ok, just this one time. Hindsight. Tasted like vinegar and should have left it for those Burmese cockroaches at the Golden Guesthouse. India stamp. You are now outside of your comfort zone and there is no better feeling. Overland entry: hello Nepal, I didn't know you were a dust bowl. Airway exit: Holy Buddha, I hope we clear those 8000 meter peaks. Some stamps are fading, the first layer in a building collage of ink and color, dates and ballpoint scribbles, initials, official authorizations. Peru, Ireland, Costa Rica, Amsterdam layovers. Always back to the US. Welcome Home, Miss Tracy... I never left. The world is my home and I have 12 fresh pages newly sewn into my passport-sized, personal story book.
I love your passport pic. I am excited to read about your newest adventure:-) We love you!! Miss you already!
ReplyDeleteI love the shots and the story. Have a great time and blog often. We all love it. ((Hugz))
ReplyDeleteJD