Everything begins somewhere.
It was a photograph of the ruins
of Machu Picchu in the National Geographic book Excursion to Enchantment that ignited my desire to roam. It was the
words of Pico Iyer, Jack Kerouac, John Steinbeck, Jon Krakauer and Anne Mustoe.
It was the films of Woody Allen & Richard Linklater and the music of
songwriters and bands I loved that urged me to pack my bags and just go.
They all told tales of journeys
so different and exciting, I lived vicariously through their words and
photographs for years. Getting lost in African jungles, basking in the
emptiness of Icelandic provinces, cycling through Patagonia, and hitchhiking in
the backwoods of America—different tales of different people with different
perspectives all with one goal—to go away. Maybe to seek something—adventure,
spontaneity, freedom—or to just bask in the simplicity of being on the road, of
being elsewhere. Their journeys, either presented through words, photographs or
music, enchanted me at a young age and made me promise myself that I’ll go
there one day; I’ll go to all the places I’ve read about and seen. It’s a
promise yet to be, but slowly, being fulfilled.
It began from road trips with
family to out-of-town journeys with friends, casual travels in my own country that
would later evolve to out-of-the-country misadventures to solo trips to faraway lands without solid plans, enough money and
people to run to. In short, complete independence.
There is a certain level
of fear that comes with traveling independently. The not knowing could start
self-doubts and restlessness. Personally however, I like this mystery of
travel—of not knowing where you're going, not knowing anyone and at the same
time, anyone not knowing you. As scary or crazy as it could be, there is
a certain satisfaction figuring out that you can roam a city, a country on your
own, at your own pace and by your own means. It’s like a primer to being
acquainted with oneself for it teaches you to trust yourself and know your
strengths, it teaches you to be open-minded. It teaches you to see and
experience things differently, not as a tourist but as a traveler, an explorer
of the world. Most importantly, it gives you a taste of what freedom is like.
I’ve read it in the books, I’ve heard it in
music, and have seen it in films, but feeling freedom and experiencing it on your
own is a much different thing. It’s stronger. It pulls you. For me, it came in
little doses, in little moments, almost fragments—in strange encounters with
interesting people, or that few good minutes of a drive when the wind is
rushing to my face that I feel it contort in different ways or when a place is
painted a certain color of orange or yellow that it reminded me of certain
childhood summers; or while jumping around rain puddles while singing my
favorite tune or while trespassing castle grounds late Sunday nights.
Moments like these are the reason why I
tread on through, why I continue to travel and why I see travel as something beautiful. Maybe
it’s romanticism, but I live for these moments, they nourish one’s soul. I
collect them and possess them for they’re like bookmarks; reference points to
when I felt most alive, when I felt free. And once you feel freedom, it’s hard
to stop. The longing to be away, to feel it again intensifies once you come
home to your routine. That’s why I see no reason to stop, now or maybe, ever.
That's why I've decided, yet again, to pack my bags for yet another journey... this time, to Kerouac's land, to America. I plan to cross the country, from California to New York and back, almost a reverse of the original On The Road trail, stopping by tiny towns and big cities, hopping on trains and buses as I go. I have a month of planning left, but right now I can honestly say, that I am looking forward to the feeling of freedom yet again.
