One of my biggest regrets from my travels was that I didn’t write enough about my adventures, not on here, not in my journal, not in letters home. I meant to write more; I really wanted to preserve the events in a way that I could turn to those words years later and spark memories of adventures with names and places that had faded from recall. But when it came to having to choose between capturing those adventures on paper or experiencing more adventures, I usually chose to experience more than I could record.
Or else I chose to sleep.
But this choice means that I haven’t told you about how amazing it was to feel the power of an elephant’s ears pressing my legs against her head as I rode around the jungle. Or the fun of splashing around in a Vietnam mud bath with new friends and fellow travelers. Or how I relaxed in (gifted) luxury at the Sheraton in Singapore on my last night in Asia. Or the sense of accomplishment I felt after cycling the very steep, windy hill up to the castle in Budapest. Now it’s been more than a month that I’ve been on American soil and those little memories are starting to drift away.
I know it sounds strange, but part of me doesn’t want to tell these stories because by telling them in past tense I have to admit that my stint of adventuring is over for now.
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