In a little thatch-roof cottage in the center of Kathmandu, I sat at my laptop and pressed submit. And it was done. I’d just sent $1,200 to a specialist travel agent to book passage aboard a freighter from Sri Lanka to Malaysia.
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A few months back, after stepping off a sailboat from Colombia to Panama, I met a man in the coastal town of Portobelo. His name was Jack, and he ran a hostel there. Jack is in his sixties now. He has the air of a man at peace with himself.
First in Dublin, as I was heading out the door, an old teacher bought me dinner, appearing as he never had before. I met a man in Durham, also working on a dream. Not long after he took the leap. He’s now in Medellín. I met a girl in Amsterdam, and I can’t forget her eyes. We laughed and we kissed and we rode our bikes, beneath those clear Dutch skies.
The past few years, I’ve taken a lot of long bus journeys, including scores of overnight buses, several lasting 24 hours or more. It’s what you gotta do if you want to travel around the world without flying.
It’s almost 2 a.m. as I leave a bar on Frenchmen, grab my bike and head for home. This counts as an early night in New Orleans. I didn’t get to bed the previous until seven in the morning.
All these people listed are made of the same star stuff as you, me, and everyone else. Nothing supernatural about them, yet they went ahead and did exceptional things anyways, excuses be damned.