The clouds are looming in the distance. I climbed the hill of our banding station site. I can’t describe in words the hold of the mountains. Do I have them or do they got me?
The peaks take up about half of the sky, crisp in the northern air, I can clearly see the blooming red vegetation along the lower half, coloring the mountains a shade of red.
I keep trying to go back “home,” but where is home? My parents left me to be a wandering vagabond the moment they left our country home, and then left again, and then left again. All I knew about the world was the magic of the mountains as I passed them by. Or do they pass me by?
When I was 8 I fell asleep on the bus that took us to another country. When I woke up in the morning, we were in Chile. The kids told me I had an Argentinian accent, although we’ve only been there for a year. I spoke Spanish the way my heart spoke mountains.
I keep looking for “home,” but where is the location? It looks like I’m doomed to travel forever. Maybe the desert air will offer some insights. Maybe the beaches of the pacific will bring some breeze to the questions. I try not to think about it but I keep thinking about it. I met some amazing travelers along the way who made me feel like I don’t travel enough. They told me my experiences don’t count because I’m so young. Ha. Ha!
The only thing different between us : I’m not trying to keep on moving. I just keep making excuses to leave.
Read more of columnist Tatiana Niko’s post-graduate, world traveling, thinker and dreamer insights right here.