"Why do you like to travel so much?" Hmm.
I like to travel. Everyone knows that. I've been around the world in eighty days, and then some. Ok, maybe not eighty days. But why? I like to learn new languages, and I'm good at it. I like to stare at strange people and strange things, which, as it turns out, I do quite well in my own country as well. I like to have interesting experiences. My boyfriend asked me the other day what exactly it was that I wanted to do with my life, space camp not being a suitable enough answer. I couldn't really answer him. I want to be interesting, I said. I want to do interesting things.
As I was retelling one of the more infamous stories from my most recent foray into the unknown, it occurred to me that I like telling the tall tales of my enterprises almost as much, if not more, as I like having them. (Everything just seems a lot funnier when you're not staring death in the face.)
I went to Asia. I came home. I went back again, came back again. Having said everything that I've just said, and faced with the strong likelihood that I will return to the East just one more time, I thought it was due time that I wrote something on here about my ten weeks traveling through Indochina - a land full of monks, motorcycles and Mekong-related misadventures.
