Itchy Feet

I have a confession to make. I, Nan Eff, suffer from itchy feet. I’ve racked up credit cards, told white lies and missed spending my own birthday with family and friends just to scratch the itch. And yet, in the same way a gambler does, I lie awake at night reliving the last fix; dreaming of the next.

Vancouver, Frankfurt, Spokane, Budapest--they’ve all satisfied temporarily. I’ve been content to walk through torrential rain just to drink a latte at a Starbucks in Vancouver, and more than happy to carry 30 lbs of personal belongings on my back through the streets of Frankfurt to eat pasta in a diner. Both of these things I could have done at home, but neither would have made the itch go away.

It could be hereditary; my grandmother rarely spends more than a month in one place. Or maybe it has to do with my commitment issues--every time things get a little comfortable the itch gets worse.

But mostly, once you’ve breathed in the humid air of the Danube, eaten sweet poppyseed dumplings in Prague and wandered casually through a Sunday market in Cracow, you know something different exists.

And that something different might not be something better, but having experienced it, having translated unfamiliar signs and adjusted to illogical store hours, is enough to remind yourself who you are and what you are capable of doing.

Don’t ask me where I want to go next; I can’t tell you--I want to go everywhere. I want to experience cockroaches in my bed in India and losing my passport in Kenya. I’m willing to try dog meat in Korea and frog legs in Peru. I could have my bags packed in 15 minutes, and wouldn’t think twice about charging another flight to my credit card. You think I’m exaggerating? Try me.