There’s this thing called Restless Leg Syndrome. My mom, her
sisters, and my grandmother all have it, as far as a self-diagnosis can let you
have it. I’ve got it too. If you don’t know what it is, then you’re very lucky.
But let me explain it to you.
It usually happens at night, or when you’re tired. For me,
it starts in my thighs—a weird tingling sensation. Well, less a tingling than a
sort of wiggling feeling, like a bunch of mice are running around in there. I
have to stand up, walk around, do some stretches, punch myself in the thigh—anything
to make the restless feeling stop. Usually, there’s nothing to do but go to
bed, stretch out, and hope I’m tired enough to fall asleep before the mice chew
their way out of my calves.
As you can imagine, it’s a very uncomfortable feeling.
But what happens when you get Restless Leg syndrome in your soul? What do you do when your very being needs to get up and move, to
stretch out before you go insane?
Welcome to wanderlust, my friends.
I’ve been stricken with wanderlust, and bad. It started when
I was getting ready to graduate high school and knew I had to get away from my
quick-sand small town. So I went to Hawaii for college. After that, I found myself in Argentina for a
year and a half. Then Utah to finish college (which I admit isn’t the most
wanderlust-y place I could have gone, but it was still a place that I’d never
lived in long-term before). After the
(let’s just call it what it was) blandness of 2 years in Utah (which, granted,
was interrupted by a study abroad in the UK, a tour in Ireland, and a couple
random trips to California and Vegas), my legs were restless. I needed to be on
the move again.
So I ended up in China. For a year. And now, traveling in
Asia for the last 6 months. I’m stretching my soul, giving myself a few hops to
ease the restlessness.
But why does it happen? Why does it happen to some people
and not others? I know several people, friends and family, who have barely left
their hometown, who may have never left their country, or heaven forbid, their
state. It astounds me. Why don’t some people have the desire to just go?
Well, let’s take a look at the word. Wanderlust. Wander. To
wander. It’s a word that implies aimlessness, perhaps confusion, or being lost.
People wander around when they aren’t really sure where they’re going or what
they’re looking for.
But just in case you thought this timeless cliché of a quote
was going to escape this post: Not all who wander are lost.
Sometimes, people just wander. Sometimes, we don’t need to
have a goal or an endpoint in mind. Sometimes we just want to walk around and
see what we find, despite not really looking for anything.
I’m a wanderer. I can spend hours wandering a supermarket or
a shopping mall or a busy street, not looking for anything, not trying to get
anywhere, but just seeing. The way
people walk, how things are organized, where things come from—these are the
things I like to see. I’m a browser, and not just for products.
But what about the people who don’t wander? What about those
that don’t feel the need to walk the aisles or people watch or just take a
walk? Often, they’re goal oriented—get a
degree, get a job, score that promotion, buy a new hairbrush. Whatever it is,
they go for it, point A to point B, no room for browsing. Or they don’t.
Sometimes it’s the people with no goal that don’t wander. They’re comfortable
where they are, with what they have. They don’t deviate from the
tried-and-true, the solid foundation of proven success (or failure). Maybe never leaving home means security.
Maybe staying in your hometown means comfort and a sense of belonging.
And maybe wandering means just a bit more complications.
But what about the second part? Lust. What a loaded word.
Fire, passion, sex—these are the words of lust. Danger. Risk. This is what lust has to offer.
So why not?
Why not indulge in the lust of wandering? Why not delve into
the risks, the challenges, the potential dangers of wanderlust?
I can think of no reason not to. If you have the passion for
it, you can make it happen, regardless of the risks. Sure, there is no security in wandering, true
wandering. There is no fail-safe plan, no insurance. But that does not mean
that it is impossible, implausible, improbable.
The passion for wandering is a passion that is strong and
difficult to quench. To lust after the wandering experience is to lust after a
phantom that is always just out of your grasp. The more you chase her, the more
you want her, and the further she is away from you.
Until the chase has satisfied you. Because it’s not the
ghost you want, but the hunt.
And what do you do then, when your world-wandering has been
sated, when your restless legs have been stretched and kneaded into
tranquility?
You wait. You wait because wanderlust is an addiction. The
cravings will come again, stronger than before, and won’t be satisfied until
you get up and go. They will be there
whether you are ready for them or not, so be prepared.
I’ve been traveling for a long time. I feel like I’ve been
on the move for years. I settle down for a year or two at a time, but it’s
never permanent. And I like it that way.
Now, as Ricky and I are a third of the way through our
Vietnam motorbike tour, so far over 6 months of traveling, we feel that our
wanderlust is being sated for the time being.
Following our trip here, we will be looking for work in China, and a
little stability. Our lady wanderlust
has left us dirty, bearded (Ricky, at least), hairy legged (the both of us),
and generally unkempt. We’re slightly ill, unhygienic, and sore. But mostly
we’re happy.
Wanderlust is a fickle mistress.
So in March, we’ll let her go for a while.
But she’ll come back. She always does.
