There was this moment during my travels, two days after my 26th birthday, when I swore to myself I would quit travelling. Vacation? Yes. Travel? No.

I sat on the back of a scooter in Balinese traffic, an open wound on the back of my head, blood running down my neck, mixed with tears.

Due to a surf-accident, I had to go to hospital – and had enough! What was I even doing on the other side of the world?!

I have a nice life back home, with first-world-problems and a job far from boring. I have friends, a family – what the hell was I doing here?

A month later, I was home. And home was wonderful. I felt safe, I felt as happy as a pig in muck.

Time hop: Three months have passed. I have worked, done my taxes, met old and new friends, cleaned windows. And without further notice something came crawling back into my head: Restlessness. I catch myself getting nervous in closed rooms. I need to go outside. I need air. Breathe. I need to breathe.

I ramble. I visit corners of this city I have never been to before. I need to be strange again. I need to move.

I have set off two times before. 18 months on the road. Should suffice for a lifetime.

It doesn’t.

She who broke the chains once has no choice but to break them again.

It is neither the thrill of danger that drives me, nor the excitement of discovery or the longing for adventure. Those are the flavours of travel. The secret ingredient, however is something else. The essence I can’t get enough of. The taste I got hooked on.

The secret ingredient is me.

Me, detached from everything that’s holding back. Me, far away from my own history. Me, lonesome on the road.

And then back home, they ask me how it was, my vacation.

I respond hurt, aggrieved, snotty even.

“Vacation? Which vacation are you referring to?”

But they don’t understand. And how could they? They have never been out there. And that is okay. Leaving everything behind and exploring the world with a backpack doesn’t appeal to everyone.

What they don’t know, however, is the fact that travelling isn’t a big deal.

We aren’t adventurers.

We aren’t running away.

We simply found a way of life that agrees with us.

We have two homes. One has four walls. The other one has no borders.

By the way, my Balinese surf accident was sewed with four stiches. A scar is hiding under my hair now. Only I know that it’s there. And sometimes, when the weather changes, it twinges a little to remind me that it’s time again.

Time to go home.

Coming home – blessing or curse? What do you think?

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