Neither do I wish to present a polished view of the world, nor do I wish to present a polished view of myself.
I am an imperfect man writing an imperfect tale.
I know this; I do not need to be told.
All too often, I read travel literature and travelogues that only show the bright, romantic side of traveling, and, likewise, the bright, romantic side of planet earth. This is bullshit.
Travel – if it is done right – is not always happy, not always enjoyable, and not always relaxing. A traveler is not always going to be amiable, excited, or open to everything they experience. Likewise, I want to read traveler tales that are not always feigning positivity. I think that it is really unfortunate that so many travel writers do not write of the times in their travels when they are less than heroic, when they are grumpy, and when they are anything but wise.
To these ends, I try to write whatever I feel, wherever I am. I have found this travelogue to be a good place to air out my dirty laundry.
I do not always intend to be correct in my observations, I do not wish to present myself as being fair, and I do not want to be taken as a source of objectivity.
I write what I honestly feel in the moment I feel it, and then publish it. This travelogue is a day-by-day account of my journey around the world. I intend to show the rubbish heaps that are upon the the planet – as well as those that are within myself – just as I intend to show the beautiful vistas.
It has always struck me as funny how the written word is taken to be so impermeable, so unchangeable. I know that my impressions change by the day, that my opinions are ever adapting to meet my experience. Just because I commit something to writing does not mean that I will always believe in it, it does not mean that I will always stand by it, and it definitely does not mean that I think that I am correct. I want to share my ideas and observations with other people, simply because I enjoy doing so.
I enjoy it when I get emails and comments telling me that I am wrong, un-objective, and not correct, because this is an indication to me that I am successful in my mission:
I am writing as a human.
If nothing else, I wish for this travelogue to be as askance as possible. I want the reader to see between the lines and find a weak and shivering little puppy that is just trying to learn about the world that it lives in.
The Vagabond Journey Travelogue is simply my impressions of the world as I move through it. A documentation of one man’s dance, fist fight, and love affair with planet earth. The romantic can also be found in the real.
I am just a teller of tall tales.
(Psst . . . This is also a love letter to myself.)