Sometimes it seems the things I love about travel are the same things I hate.
1. The absurdities of language.
Cross a border, and the words are different. I don't know the numbers anymore. Or how to say thank you.
2. Everywhere is temporary.
Today it's a grimy hostel with cigarette burns in the sheets. Tomorrow we'll pack again. Arrive somewhere new.
3. Disconnection from self and home.
I'm both inescapable and out of context. Me, but not me. It's a peculiar kind of loneliness. A peculiar thrill.