On Traveling & Stranger 91

I've discovered home is more about people than places.

Smiles, laughter and tears are best shared.

And everyone--yes, everyone--has a story.

Before I was 10, my parents found a way to take me to Australia, Rome, Israel, Puerto Rico, Beijing, Hong Kong, Fiji, and Hawaii. I am now 26 and have lived in Houston, Florida, Chicago, Idaho, Seattle and Saudi Arabia. I love to travel, whether it be across my city or across the world.

There is something overwhelming and humbling about visiting a place with different food, amazing music, deeply held beliefs, and a different way of simply being. It reminds me that I am small and insignificant and beauty can be found in all corners--I do not own it; I do not define it. It reminds me to concentrate, to listen, to be open and compassionate and to share and receive. It reminds me we're connected--living, breathing, trying, and loving.

It's all very addicting:  the anticipation of a new place, the journey, the experience, coming home to the familiar, and all the challenges in between. It's about figuring out how to survive amidst rules and customs while trying to be nice when it's been too many hours since sleep and food.

It's the way I learn about myself.

It's the way I learn about people.

It's the way I meet and see people.

It is how I met her--across an ocean, at a bar, shifting in her dark jeans and black heels while leaning against a table. "Gawd, I just can't stand some people. I mean, welcome to the 21st century already." She could have said it to anyone really--simply sighed it into the air--but she said it to me.

I was sure of it.

I was the only person at the table.

To be continued... 
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