B’More Baby
If I wasn’t able to travel, I think I’d die. No, strike that. I know I’d die. It’s the crux of who I am. With all the personal definitions I’ve accumulated throughout my life, the basis of who I am remains the same: writer, traveler. I have this incurable wanderlust, my innate antibiotic. I’ve navigated my way at the age of 10 from Wilmington, DE to Philadelphia using trains and subways; snuck away from my French group in Paris to wander alone through a mall where grocery carts ascended by escalator to a supermarket on the second floor; was ushered up and down Bloor street in Toronto at 1 am by a woman three times my age whom I met an hour before in a secluded movie theatre, and reached up for a worn and broken but colorful strand of Mardi Gras beads that draped the trees lining St. Charles Street in New Orleans. Traveling is my addictive, delicious adventure. Just give me my backpack and 20 minutes, and I’ll be on the first thing smoking.
