The one who always had a plane ticket in the back of her mind
That urge to drop everything for a plane ticket, which tickles you from time to time, do you recognize it? It arises without warning, in the middle of a gloomy day, and whispers in your ear: "What if you took off far from here?" Not necessarily tomorrow morning, but always there, in the background of your mind, ready to take over at the first sign of being fed up.
Travel isn't a parenthesis in your life; it is your life itself. The moment you unpack, you can already feel the next call. That plane taking off in your mind is your normal state, not an exception.
You're back from a trip—let's say Lisbon, those cobblestone streets, the smell of pasteis de nata still lingering in your nostrils. You drop your bag, take the metro, back to work, back to shopping. And two days later? The urge strikes again. Not a passing whim, but a certainty: you're always just one plane ticket away. One click, and you're somewhere else.
It's you, that version of yourself who lives with suitcases always half-packed. You don't need to sell everything to be a traveler. Your daily life has its roots—work, friends, apartment—but your wings remain spread. If work is wearing you down, if routine is choking you, a door remains open. An airport awaits you, somewhere.
Travel is in your DNA. It doesn't wait for a summer vacation or a miraculous inheritance. It's those stolen weekends—a low-cost flight to Barcelona on a Friday night, a spontaneous getaway to Tuscany to breathe in the fresh air. These escapes recharge your batteries, expand your lungs, remind you that the world is vast and your life is bigger than your couch. Barely back home, you're already scanning for deals, because you're already missing being somewhere else.
This isn't irresponsibility, it's your inner freedom. Staying is a conscious choice, not an inevitability. This virtual ticket gives you quiet strength: you dare to say no to rotten compromises, to negotiate your terms without wavering, to reject mediocrity. «"I'll tolerate it today," you tell yourself, "because tomorrow I can slam the door and leave."»
Other people sometimes look at you strangely: «"Another trip? Don't you ever stop?"» But you know. You settle down, precisely. You cherish your strong roots – family, friends, habits that sustain you. Travel isn't an escape, but a safeguard against stagnation.
No sooner have you returned than the call starts again. The photos on your phone rekindle the flame, strangers' stories on Instagram pique your interest, and that mental map of the world lights up with a new red dot. You're not eternally dissatisfied. You're just built to move, to remind yourself that life doesn't end at the borders of your neighborhood.
One day, perhaps, you'll embark on a series of grand departures. Or perhaps not. It doesn't matter. Your life isn't a locked cage, but a plane at the end of the runway, engines warm, window open. Always just one trip away. All that remains is for you to set the time.
