I've got to admit that I have this romanticized self-image of the weary world traveler, making my way through the crowded market streets in a foreign land, chastising the vendors in their native tongue for trying to take advantage of my supposed naivete.
The truth is, I enjoy the experience so much that I'm actually the goofy, wide-eyed small-town guy with the stupid grin plastered across his mug as I take in the sights and sounds of a new place. It's all I can do not to point my finger, and in a loud voice say, "Wow! Look at that!" In other words, I'm a lot less Indiana Jones and a lot more Jethro Bodine.
I love to travel. Some chemical thing happens to me the moment I start planning a trip, and my brain is flooded with endorphins and adrenaline as I go from those first tentative steps at the beginning of my journey to the last, exhausted mile of the road back home. I'm happier, more alert, more alive. And although I like to pretend how cool I am, I'm sure I come across as Jethro, pretending to be a double-naught spy.