My first trip to Australia occurred in the middle of my second grade year. As the Aussie’s say, “year two.” Oz had everything to offer but a wizard. It was truly a wonderland to my seven-year-old self. To call the large, sloping backyard of my Aunt and Uncle’s home lush would be to make a massive understatement. The sound of a kookaburra’s cackle in the morning is a memory I recall with the utmost nostalgia.
Australia was heaven for my curious little child-self. With wombats in Taronga Zoo, toilet water that spins in the opposite direction, and Carmello Koalas to satisfy my insatiable sweet tooth, there was no shortage of diverting experiences.
That is where I caught the bug. The travel bug, to be exact. Some people talk about traveling as something one must “get out of their system while they are young.” The people who say this are the one’s who have never been infected with the bug. If they had, they would know there’s no getting rid of it. It’s a chronic condition whose primary symptom is a desire to experience the world. This desire for me is as insatiable as my sweet tooth.
There is no cure, there is only treating the symptom. The treatment is obvious: keep traveling.
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