A Break Up Letter to Travelling

A Break Up Letter to Travelling

Dear Travelling,

This isn’t going to be easy for you to hear, but it’s going to be even harder for me to write. I’ve been doing some thinking, and I think we should spend some time apart. No, don’t say anything, don’t try to change my mind. I’ve thought about this a lot and I think this is the best thing for both of us.

We’ve had some amazing times together: in the last 10 years, we’ve lived overseas, visited 25 different countries and fallen in love with places and people. But you’ve also left me sick and alone in foreign cities, broken my heart and seen me onto flights back home with only 10 dollars to my name.

Of course, I understand that nobody is perfect, and in order to have the best bits of you, I have to deal with the worst. It’s just the worst bits of you are starting to take a toll. I find myself once again completing an expensive visa application which I wouldn’t be doing if it wasn’t for you. I’m saying no to social events, eating 80c tinned tuna and actively avoiding the dentist so I can throw myself and my money into our next trip.

I don’t want to put all the blame on you, but you can clearly see how this is all your fault. Every time I think I’m done with you, I get pulled back in. Whenever we have a break, I start to get restless and nervous. I look at rugs and lamps in Kmart and think, Maybe I could be the person who owns a rug and a lamp. But then, there you are, in the back of my brain and all I can think of is how you make me feel.

That rush of adrenaline as I book a flight. The thrill of a life lived with only possessions that can fit into a bag. The excitement of landing in a country and not knowing where I’m going next. All of a sudden, you’re all I can think about and before I know it, I’m running out of Kmart screaming, “YOU’LL NEVER TAKE MY MONEY!” and frantically googling accommodation in Scotland.

In this case, it’s not me, it’s you. I’ll never forget the memories we’ve shared. The night we spent underneath the stars in the Sahara Desert, being lost on a motorbike in the back streets of Vietnam, and of course, swimming naked off a yacht in Croatia. You’ve bought out the best in me, but I think it’s time for me to own that lamp. And to buy at least one rug.

Although, we should probably wait until after this next trip. I mean I’ve already started planning and I have tickets booked. Come to think of it, we’ll be spending a lot of time together in the second half of this year. And I was planning on celebrating my 30th with you next year; it’s a special occasion and I feel like you should be a part of it.

Actually, a lot of my plans for the next five years revolve around you. Maybe I’m being too hasty; maybe there’s a way we can compromise. Maybe I can buy a really small lamp that fits in my backpack and you can suggest shorter trips away.

Okay, I take it all back. I’m sorry for what I said when I was poor, I started writing this letter after using a chopstick to get the last of the Vegemite out of the jar, I was angry and hungry and I didn’t know what I was saying. Let’s stay together. I’m not ready to give you up. At least, not yet.

Love,
Rowan

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Rowan still hasn’t finished War & Peace, but she did use it to balance her dinner once. Living in London, she’s steadily working her way through the Europe’s great cities and hopes to try every wine in England before her visa expires.