My heart sings a song of wanderlust – a desire for the exotic, the unfamiliar, a need to feel like the other and not the I. 

Home, though delightful, feels heavy these days.

These walls are solid and safe, well known every inch.

I long for the strange. 

I long for unexpected angles and curves, passages that take me to vistas unimagined.   I want us to be a couple on a rue in Paris, a calle in Barcelona, an alley in Istanbul.  Walking where feet have trod for hundreds and hundreds of years – not just a couple of centuries. I want to curl up with you in a glass igloo in Norway and watch the northern lights. I want to hold your hand in a bure in Fiji, the thatch rustling0 in the ocean breeze.

I want architecture that begs for our attention and the camera’s lens.  Adobe, stucco, marble.  People who walk differently and speak in a tongue I can’t understand.  I want to eat food I’ve never had in Afghanistan, drink liqueurs with the locals in Greece, and witness the traumatic running of the bulls.  I want to struggle with the language when asking a stranger to take our photo.  Though we are disheveled and jet-lagged, you will put your arm around me and we will smile for the camera capturing our joy in the moment.