Everybody said that I was traveling the world. I think not. Traveling the world, to me, is bumping from one place to another, crossing continents and visiting at many countries as possible, many of which were randomly selected.
I’m not traveling the world as I am going home, a long way home in deed. The 1st home means where I came from before, and where my parents lived. The last home is where I live now. And if it worked out and I crossed to Vietnam from China, the title would be “Home, Home and Home.” It takes so long because I wanted go overland as much as possible. If I had more time, instead of flying in and out of Australia, I would to do it by ships.
I had an 18-hour stop-over in Taipei, not long to do anything interesting but long enough to get claustrophobic and airplane phobia if I stayed and spent my day in the lounge and listened to flight departure calls.
I arrived at 5 in the morning and wouldn’t leave for San Francisco until 23:00. These days I traveled with a much slower pace, like seeing a couple of sights versus gazillions of them in a single day. Now all I want is to find a nice, cozy little place and sit.
My name is Cindy, also rhymes with travel junkie. A friend said I was probably a gipsy in my previous life. One of my many secret missions in life is to convert you to run off every once in awhile.
