And this here is the first archive post to reach the new site – it was posted back in July of 2016.
On what has proven itself to be an inevitable day of all things different (baking, eating a uncomplicated hamburger, playing Pokemon Go) I find myself birthing this word child, which is mostly thanks to the exploits of other nomads who at some point were smart enough to learn how to get paid to travel – intelligent bastards.
So far, on this day, I’ve watched the Naked Traveller (dressed at all times) Contiki it from California to New Orleans (I am tempted to book that ticket) and Lauren Juliffe over at Never Ending Footsteps regale her top 100 tips on how best to tackle the big wide world. Interesting and most enviable stuff kiddies; yes, I do have a ticket to Fraser Island in September but everywhere else is still most desirable.
That all said, I’ve been spending more time thinking about those I know personally who are going to… or are currently hitting the road. The make-up is so different and they – I have no idea how I came to know so many travel bloggers and badarse Canadians, just to point out a few – but I can guarantee one little constant they’re bound to have in common, provided they aren’t sociopaths at heart; they know how to get homesick.
Guilty of this, why yes I am, but that might just be because I’m human. I’ve had bad stints of homesickness and anxiety attacks in the past (not something I’d wish on anyone), which have made the social media news, but it was recently I learnt that one of my friends was going through a very similar situation.
Said friend has only just jetted off for six months of adventuring – yes, I am envious – and she’s made it no secret that there are a few reservations going through her head, the most prominent of which is leaving her family for so long. I know her and her people to be very close so this is understandable… and something I can relate to. Channeling a bit of Marlon’s epiphany in Finding Dory there in case anyone was wondering.
Going back to my troubles abroad, of which I’m still hating on, there was one little action that eventually got me out of my misery and back on my own two feet; selfies! Since there are a lot of them in this post, I will make it clear that I’m not self-obsessed. Back on topic, said friend was very happy to recieve my bit of advice.
Here’s how this trick came into being…
Walking through Dublin Airport back in… mid-ish February and before my memorable flight to Madrid (two guys having a mouth fight mid air, nuff said), I was treating myself to some cold medication and cheap water, totally oblivious to the fact that I hadn’t had my ticket Visa stamped (the bloody thing went through five pairs of eyes so somebody important could’ve told me before I lined up at the Ryanair gate) when, thanks to some free airport WiFi, my mum messaged to ask how I was going.
These kinds of talks are staples for all of us – who’s beloved Ma wouldn’t check up on them when they’re away seeing the world… and I guess the correct answer to that is Livia Soprano – and that was when my dear mum asked for a selfie, which I had no issue with. Simply taken, confusingly sent off, but an effective means of self maintenance in the making.
Fast forward to my gypsy induced anxiety attack in Seville, it was here that, feeling displaced and disturbingly silent (everyone knows me to be loud – a Manchester male model made no secret of this) I messaged my family back home for some selfies – specifically of my niece and nephews who I love unconditionally.
This proved itself to be a benevolent action – it got my tears to stop running; it brought my heart rate down. So, it’s this that I encourage, should you find yourself in a less than ideal state of mind with a suitcase weighing you down. I mean, my selfies are normally really bad (which is something I appreciate, strangely enough) but they’ve been getting the job done and especially for those I love back home.
This post is for you all…