The Girl That Travels
Her world can be any squeaky hostel bunk-bed, any sleeping bag under the spray of stars. A world can be at the bottom of a coffee mug, in heated Buenos Aires. The home, for the girl that travels, is anywhere she chooses to find it. Her world can be pitched up anywhere, its walls might graze the Moscow sleets in March, or bristle in wily Australian winds.
The windows to her home look out on different places, changing faces.
Her home might be a merry carousel, the painted horses her companions as she trots over the globe. The sights are always other, assorted views like treats. The people always altering, new spectacles on streets.
It takes a lot of confidence, a strength of mind alone, to be able to walk the world with your chin up and call every road your home.
The girl that travels is a learner, a wise old man in books. She’s got a scholarship of excellence, a special place in the school of Earth. She uses her dangling toes as a pencil on the infinity canvas of the sea. She’s got to study everything to complete her lifelong education, and she means to do it properly, what a travel hungry nerd!
She’ll know how to cook a Spanish omelette, in real Spanish style. She’ll know how to tie a turban, just like ladies from the East, it’ll make her sandy haired cousins from Maidstone giggle, at the very least. She knows how to fix a car engine, she’ll happily help the stranded. A vehicle once failed her on a Mexico highway, she knows the joy of someone stopping to save a ruined day. She’ll remember to give an old man change, she’s been to India and knows the score. And she knows how to smile at a waitress, so her plate has that little bit more.
The girl that travels is not spoiled, she doesn’t want your cars and chains, a girl that travels want a companion – a soul on the same plane. The girl that travels might have itchy feet, she might get bored and run, she cannot fight her need to fly, she may well reach the sun.