Until this past weekend I didn't really understand why I should travel except for the ego boost of telling someone about how marvelous Marrakesh is before the monsoons, though I don't really know if Marrakesh and monsoons go together any better than Reykjavik and sunbathing do, but I would if I'd gone to either one and I'd love to tell other people about how interesting I am because I know these things about these places.
The problem is that I'm lazy and I already like me more than I want you to like me, so I haven't traveled as I keep saying I want to do.
After this weekend I get it. Travel is the most extraordinary gift. Again, I get it. Finally. It upends your world and the entire kaleidescope of your life can change, in more than one way. Most of them good, amazing and I can't wait to spill it all out, but some of the ways travel tosses your life about require my attention at the moment.
François VI, Duc de La Rochefoucauld, Prince de Marcillac, gentle cynic of the 17th century had something to say that says it all, really: "