The broke and the restless.

I still need to write about Hong Kong; two art exhibition openings; the land of Kitschity Kitsch that is Mustafa, the twenty-four-hour mall in Little India; and whatever else.

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Lately, I think about what I am going to do with myself when I get home and I get into a state of mini-panic. I will no longer be in a constant state of travel. No more new passport stamps, no more dog-eared copies of Lonely Planet, no more waking up barely coherent at four in the morning and throwing three days worth of clothes in my backpack a full half hour before crawling out of my room to take the taxi to the airport. I should get a straitjacket for myself to make sure that I don't punch someone in the face out of belligerent boredom.

So there we have it. The small germ of wanderlust that has always been circulating within my bloodstream has blossomed into a permanent fever. Once you get a small sampling of the world, there really is no turning back. Pyramids? Africa? Spain? Turkey? I don't know how and when, but I will find a way to get there. Eat my way through countries. Follow where the monkeys go.

Meanwhile, I figure that I should amuse myself with future mini-adventures within the country. After all, being abroad makes me realize that I am far from seeing all the grand and glorious things that Americana has to offer. Asides from touring the usual suspects (Grand Canyon, Chicago, New York, etc.), I really like the idea of driving many hours just to see and experience something that may or may not be ridiculous by other people's standards. Such as the Annual Garlic Festival. Or the World's Biggest Yarnball. Or heck, just for a really good steak. I like steak.

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I leave tomorrow afternoon for Vietnam. Ten days from Hanoi to Ho Chi Minh City. If you don't ever hear from me again, it means that I have decided at the last minute that my true life calling is wandering the countryside painting communist propaganda posters and eating pho. PHO' SHO.