And so it was that after seven months of travelling – of packing and repacking, waiting in airports and taxis, haggling and deciphering maps, laying on beaches and gazing in museums – I had found a place to settle, for a little while, at least.
It was luxurious, a studio within a heritage house in the suburbs, where I could enjoy a real bed and a bath, central heating, free phone calls and internet (the pinnacle of a travellers wish list). The sister and I slept in, watched TV, went shopping, read books and enjoyed the changing colours from fall into winter, like a rainy weekend that never ended.
We half-heartedly looked for work, turning up for some interviews and not for others – started work in a fashion retail store one day and quit the next. Once we both happily secured jobs in a coffee shop and were planning the weekly shopping list, it hit me. I needed to leave, to go somewhere, to see something. Man, I needed to travel.
“Let’s go somewhere,” I casually mentioned to the sister, who had endured flight delays, typhoons in Taiwan and a night in a dodgy hostel with a buddist monk to finally arrive in Vancouver less than a week before.
“Sure,” she said dryly. “Whatever.”
Visions of trekking Maccu Pichu, shopping in New York and horse riding in the Grand Canyon immediately sprung to mind. I was just about to whip out the credit card when she made her point.
“But we can’t afford to go now. We’ll work and then we’ll travel,” she said.
Right. Good point. For now, we were settled, back on the couch. For a little while, at least.
-Sarah
Sarah