Chameleon

If you haven't noticed... I was gone last week.

My travels took me east. Although I love traveling abroad, it's fun to see what's two time zones over. 

Also, I discovered I'm a chameleon.

When I lived in Spain, I thought it strange when people would ask me for directions. I was very blond, very white—very American.

Strolling through the streets of London years later, I was again asked directions. I was useless and again, thought it strange that I seemed to know where I was going--at least to these people.

This last week, I found myself on a metro of one of the large cities on the east coast. I was enjoying my book when a woman approached me, asking about a metro stop--whether this train stopped there. I didn't know.

Luckily for her, she was standing in front of the metro map. I'm adept at reading maps. I quickly confirmed that—yes, the train did stop at the stop she wanted. 

Even while wandering around the city, one person asked directions to one of the places I had recently left.

You see? Chameleon. Apparently, I belong anywhere.

Fighting the Blues

For some people, traveling is a luxury. It is something to do when you have money and time.

To me, it's a necessity.

Stay too long with the same scenery and the anxious, antsy feelings come on. My friends can recognize it—the restless habits, the apathetic attitude, the hermit-like tendencies. They know it's coming. And they love that I travel.

They say it's for the pictures.

But I know that I'm more pleasant after an adventure. After I'm reminded of how good I have it. 

After I strike out on my own for a minute or two and realize that maybe I'm not brave, like I pretend to be. 

I'm lonely.

And these trips to this places on my own only heighten that emotion. And make me crave human contact. 

The trips make me happier, more pleasant to be around. But I'm only satisfied for a few months. It's a fleeting happiness. 

I wish that there was reason to my travels. And some companions.

Travel: Colors

At one time in my life, I lived in a foreign city where they have markets on Saturdays and you have to learn to barter in order to get good deals. 

What I loved most were the colors that I saw. Buildings that were yellow, green, blue, red, and pink. Colorful. It fit there. It added life to a rather barren land of brown dirt roads and palm trees. Walk ten steps away from the beach lined boardwalk and you entered the real city that no one wants to see. 

Back here in the States, I gawk if I see a house that is an abnormal color. Really? I say to myself. You want a mint green house? 

But in that paradise (and it was—it was the first time I ever got a real noticeable tan!), it was okay to have those colors; to hang your laundry out on the balcony; to know who your neighbors are. 

And the colors were just a way of welcoming the newcomers and foreigners.