Pack-up and go

I have never travelled with two rucksacks before. But this time, I have decided, it might actually be useful. Practical. Function before fashion. I am an older and wiser traveller now and I look like a pregnant turtle.

If my eighteen year old self had met me now I would have judged me. I would have worried (in the slightly patronising way that younger people worry about older people they meet) that my older-self lacked directed. But my eighteen year old self would have been wrong. Partly wrong. Path-of-least resistance would dictate that I get a job in London, and –  with no particular career aspirations – I should accept whatever job I get offered; earn a living, settle down. But getting a job in London would just be having A job, it wouldn’t be getting THE job for me.

London is like a river with a ferocious current and there are three things, of which love of any one I think will anchor you there: a person, a job, or a home. Or fear; you fill your pockets full of worries and they’ll pull your trousers down, sink you to the river bed and keep you there. But without any of those things you get swept away. I think I was drowning, so now I am riding the tide out to sea.

Travelling is not about leaving your home (I have heard); it is about leaving your habits. You have to fall out of the arms of a comfortable life and be prepared for the enormousness of anything. My (two) backpacks are stuffed with a strange collection of clothes and enough books for the paper weight to keep me well grounded.

Don’t forget your wits. Don’t leave them behind. Keep your wits with you always.