Eleven Weeks, Six Days
Or how three months became five, and counting
When I left my job in the beginning of June, my “plan”, as it were, was to take the summer off. A month in NYC basking in the glory of having nowhere to be. A trip to San Francisco and Miami to visit some close friends. A few weeks living outside of Atlantic City with my parents (and possibly with other welcoming friends), spending time with family, my new goddaughter Nuala, and enjoying the summer “at the shore.” All this was to be gloriously capped off by a yoga retreat in Morocco over Labor Day, at which point I would have been diligently looking for and perhaps even already committed to a job at a new company.
Fast forward to August 24th, and I’m packing a travel pack borrowed from a friend and hopping on a flight to Portugal on Friday. From there I’ll head to the yoga retreat in Marrakech, travel to the Moroccan coast to visit Essaouira, trek north to Chefchaouen if I can sort the transportation, spend a night in Fez, then meet a friend in Barcelona in mid-September. After Spain, I’m thinking of visiting Greece or Italy, then enjoying a few weeks stay in Bali.
I’ve never traveled like this before — open-ended, international, mostly alone. It honestly never crossed my mind that I could before now. I was so fixated on following the rules, meaning I missed my opportunity to travel in my 20s and now I should be focusing on a “career” and a partner. I lost sight of myself. I love the idea of rules but I so often find they don’t really work for me so I end up abandoning them to do my own thing.
Today, doing my own thing means traveling abroad with a loose itinerary and a willingness to learn, explore, and be open to the experience. The scariest part is acknowledging that I am embracing a lack of traditional goals to make space for the unknown. Not only do I not know where I will be in two months, or six months, or a year — I also don’t know where I’ll want to be or where I could be. My goal is to spend every day finding out what is possible.
