People often ask me why I travel. It’s a simple question, but one I find almost impossible to answer. The answers sound lame: I like to meet new people, step outside my comfort zone. All true, of course, but there’s a lot more to it than that. I can think of a lot of reasons why one shouldn’t travel — if you’re trying to run from your demons, they’ll find you, even at the height of the Himalayas or the depths of the Amazon Basin. Funny thing about demons, they’re even worse when you have to face them alone in remote, foreign lands.

But travel is a journey, with its share of ups and downs — and you’ll usually feel those ups and downs to the extreme, especially if you’re on your own. You’ll have moments of inspiration and gratitude, but also moments when you lose your cool with a cabbie in Calcutta and act like a madwoman, striking fear in the heart of said cabbie.

Years ago, I picked up a postcard in Nepal with a Buddhist proverb: “There is no way to happiness, happiness is the way.” I understood the concept on an intellectual level, but it took years before I was able to put it into practice — at least some of the time.

It may sound cliché, but travel is more about the journey than the destination (or ticking things off a list). I’ve seen the tip of Mt. Everest glow pink for a brief moment before the sun set over the Himalayas. I’ve also terrified a Calcutta cabbie by acting like a raving lunatic in a moment of complete frustration. This is what travel is all about; both experiences are equally valid.

So I no longer plan my trips — sure, I flip through guidebooks and do some research online, but most of my travels are TBD.

I don’t know why I travel, really. Travel can be tough, in ways you can’t imagine until you’re actually doing it. It’s not all sunsets and rainbows and smiles. But I can tell you, through all my mishaps and misadventures, I’ve seen some pretty remarkable sunsets.

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