Manitoba, CanadaI am the type of person who never wants the journey to end. When I was growing up in the sleepy city of Winnipeg, I used to beg my dad to take me “once around Wildwood” before going home. This meant that we would circle the neighbourhood before pulling into the driveway, taking about 5 minutes or two songs on the radio.One of my favourite parts of travelling is the actual journey: the rickety train ride, the bumpy bus, the rusty motorbike, the cramped rickshaw (airplanes are excluded from this sentiment). There is almost nowhere I would rather be than sitting on a train with some good food and some good company and a beautiful country passing by outside the window. I have had some of my most memorable moments during these kinds of voyages, and, even when finally arriving in Budapest or Sapa or Casablanca, I often can’t help but wishing the journey was just a little bit longer. That’s not to say that I don’t love the destination, just to say that I often love the journey just as much.
I’ve been dreaming of road trips lately, the idea of rain on the windshield, a stack of old tapes, some greasy diner food, the limitless roads in front of us, a map we don’t use. I grew up taking road trips across Canada and America, and some of my favourite childhood memories happened on those holidays. If I could, I would get in a car and drive across Australia, I would hire a motorcycle for India and Turkey, I would feel the wind in my hair in an old convertible that took me through the American south, I would buy a used caravan and live in it for months on end as we rambled across Europe (just like my parents did). I say that I would if I could, but something tells me I will.