I am absolutely ready to move to New York, I can feel the city thrumming in my veins, the energy flowing through me as I move through the masses of people rushing around to get where they are going.

It’s going to make me miss London like nothing else ever has. I fell in love with that city. From Buckingham to the Eye to Parliament to the Underground, my entire being often screams to go back to London.

But I know it won’t stop with London. My list of countries to visit is ever growing. I love he cultures, the people, the food, the languages. I want to go back to France, to revisit Ireland. I want to stand on the coast of Scotland, kiss the Blarney stone in Ireland, eat pasta in Italy, swim in Spain (where the rain falls mainly on the plain.) I want to breathe in the air of Germany, come home with a tan from Egypt. There are even places here in the United States I year to lay my eyes on. The Grand Canyon, Niagra Falls, the Golden Gate bridge. I refuse to die without writing ‘Viva Las Vegas’ on my car window as I make a trip to the city of sin itself.

And the above list barely begins to cover it. Sweden, Romania, Poland, Australia, New Zealand, Belgium, and back to Canada. 

I cannot begin to fathom how a person settles in a place and doesn’t leave. At least not for short trips. I’ve been taking out-of-country trips ever couple of years since I was in the ninth grade (and am currently a super, super senior in college). I get that itch that drives me up the wall and I begin to feel¬†claustrophobic, begging to travel.

If I had the money and time I would just travel everywhere in the US I wanted via car (because hello Route 66).

Wanderlust, it’s got me wrapped around it’s finger, promising airy skies and open roads ahead.