Travel is sleeping in a 9-bed hostel room where the whole world seems to be in transit. Travel is sweating out both pride and humility in a tango class with a room full of strangers. Travel is all the ways my obsessive planning can and will go wrong. It’s my dumb expression over how many words on the Argentinian cafe menu my translation app won’t translate.

Travel is like lifting the top off a pot of boiling water to release some of the pressure. And then it’s the homesickness that creeps in like a haunting, like nostalgia, like yearning for the smell of my living room or just one bite of my dad’s homemade apple pie, unmatched the world over.

And travel is seeing my parents for the first time in months. Travel is realizing that home has something to do with the moment at the airport where they’re sure to squeeze my body between them and hold me like I might float away again if they let go, and even though I have a flight out in January, travel is believing that if they don’t let go, I might not leave.

 

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