A baby in Cambodia

I've spent about as much time backpacking through Asia and Africa as I have been pregnant and, to be honest, there isn't all that much difference between the two.  Pregnancy is like backpacking through Southeast Asia because:

• in the beginning, you're disoriented, exhausted, and disbelieving (Did I really just cross over two continents in 17 hours?  Is there really a tiny human being growing inside me?)

• you could wake up on any given morning and vomit

• after a little while, things even out and you start to feel great and love this place

• it's January and the ceiling fan is running on high

• fantasies tend to involve wine, really good soft cheeses, and Kosher dill pickles

• personal boundaries disappear as strangers ask about every element of your life (What is your job?  How much do you make?  Did you plan this pregnancy?  What are your labor and delivery plans?)

• soon, you're carrying an extra 25 to 30 pounds of luggage, making you wobble like an ungainly penguin

. . . keep reading pregnancy is like backpacking through southeast asia after the jump

Most little girls at around five years old set out their plastic doll children and play house.  The girls tussle over who will have the coveted position of "mommy" and that mommy will drive the doll around in a discarded stroller or feed the baby with a bottle.  I never was one of those girls.  Maybe my mom remembers differently, but I don't remember ever lining up my dolls for diaper changes, feedings, or nap times.  I played teacher and school with my dolls and occasionally interviewed them for my "stories," and, in one particularly harrowing incident, I decided to be a hairdresser, to the demise of my doll's golden curls. 

I never saw all that much fun in being a mother and, as time went on, the girls became women and everyone else around me started talking about having kids and taking that next step.  In the eleven years of our marriage, if we had a dollar for every time a family member, friend, or random stranger has asked us when we're going to have kids, we could have funded our whole round the world trip on that money alone.  You see, it's expected: first comes love, then comes marriage, and then comes the baby in the baby carriage.  That's what people do.  Me, on the other hand, well, I would shrug my shoulders and ignore the expectations.

There were lots of reasons I didn't want to have kids but, essentially, it boiled down to one thing: I didn't think that the world was a good enough place to bring a child.  Having a child is hard, what with the nine months of pregnancy, followed by grueling labor and delivery, the sleep-deprived first months, and a lifetime in which you are responsible for another human being.  Why should we go through all that work and lose our freedom and independence to bring a child into a world where rapes, murders, and thefts are commonplace?  As an attorney, I did a lot of pro bono work and represented indigent children whose parents didn't know how to provide, while the kids' primary ambition was to achieve the age of sixteen and quit school.  I watched an eleven year old boy walk out of a courtroom in handcuffs and shackles, while his mother cried beside me, though the child's truancy was largely due to her own neglect, and I thought to myself, "Is this it?  Is this what it means to be a mother?"

Now, of course, the decision to have children is one made by two people and Patrick wanted kids, largely because he believed procreation to be a necessary and important human function in order to continue the species and pass on our gene pool.  After spending summers in India, I never felt that the human race was in much danger of extinction and I never thought so importantly of my own genes that I felt the human race needed them to carry on.  The truth is that, at thirty, when my biological clock was supposed to be "tick, tick, ticking" --- as Marisa Tomei so eloquently put it --- I hadn't felt a single tick.

So, we left the United States for our round-the-world trip, childless by choice and happy.  I remember Patrick saying a few weeks before we left, "You know, I didn't agree with you at 22 when you weren't sure if you wanted to have kids, but looking back at it now, I'm so glad that we haven't, because we wouldn't be able to travel like this if we had children."  We had Chewy and Abby --- our canine kids --- and they filled all of our maternal and paternal instincts, without the problems that human children would have occasioned.

And, then, something happened.  This is the point where the biological clock should have started up . . . but it didn't.  No, what happened instead was more subtle and beautiful than anything I had ever expected before we started traveling the world.

I discovered that the world is a good place and there are good people here.

Yes, I could have discovered that same fact in the United States because there are very good people in my own country, but, in the U.S., I don't NEED people.  I understand my own country, its intricacies, and its fallibilities.  But, when abroad, we were reliant on the kindness of strangers because we knew nothing.  And, though people could have conned, cheated, and hassled us, instead, there was the:

• Thai people who welcomed us with huge smiles into the funeral and feast for the main Buddhist monk

• children who followed Patrick like the Pied Piper as he and our tuk tuk drivers blew balloons for them in Kampong Chnnang and Battambang

• joy and fun of cramming eighty of my family members into one house so that they could all visit with us in our short time in Chennai

• Chinese schoolgirl who saved us on our worst travel day ever

• news reporter in Japan who stopped Patrick on the street and videotaped him "sumo wrestling"

• and the Japanese girls on the trains who shyly giggled "hello" to us and practiced their English

• gate attendant at the Cotswolds Wildlife Park who reassured us that "all dogs are welcome" so that Chewy and Abby could see rhinos, zebras, and lions

• friends and family who, though long separated by time and distance, welcomed us into their homes in Asia, Australia, and Africa

• Chinese tourists who found Patrick and me to be superior attractions to the majesty of Huang Shan, and took pictures of themselves standing next to us, as we took pictures of the scenery

• looks people gave us as we danced around the Party Tree in Hobbiton, like Bilbo and his friends

•  roasted kangaroo tail shared with the aboriginals in Australia

• white glove treatment of our pups on the Queen Mary 2 and the very kind heart of the pet steward who ensured that every dog on board was happy and healthy

• exceptionally patient divemasters who calmed me as I overcame my fears of scuba diving

• heavy guys who snuck us in on the local's route to the Great Wall of China

. . . keep reading because the world is a good place after the jump

Me at Pompeii last month

This is my third new year as a permanent traveler.  We packed all our possessions into a storage facility in August 2009, and our sofas, dining table, and box-after-box-after-box of books have gathered dust for the last two and a half years.  We haven't settled in one place for more than two months in the last 28 months.  839 days of full-out nomadism.  When we head back to the United States next September, we will have been on the road for three solid years.  36 months.  1096 days.

When we left for Australia at the very beginning, Chewy was a spry 8-year-old.  Now, Abby, our baby girl, is going to turn 8 and Chewy is a steady 11.  Our nephew was a Spongebob-adoring preschooler and now he's fully enmeshed in Little League and the first grade.  We've lost and gained family members while we've been gone.  We've watched friends marry and have children from afar.  And, in those two and a half years, we've traversed five continents, over 20 countries, and way too many planes, trains, and boats.  We've been together nearly every single day for almost 900 days.

And, so far, we're not bored.  But, I'm afraid that it's going to happen soon.

Chewy and Abby seeing rhinos and zebras at the Cotswolds Wildlife Park

You see, at some point, traveling loses its charm.  When we started this blog, we virtually met lots of travellers embarking on round-the-world trips.  While we've been exploring the world, most of those blogging friends have returned home, resettled into jobs, and some have even had babies.  In the last week, Jeannie from Nomadic Chick and Ayngelina from Bacon is Magic, two popular travel bloggers and super fun women, announced that they're ending their long-term travels.

Jeannie explained in her hilariously titled post, "Crazy Travel Lady Needs to Stop," that "I’ve been bulldozing alone for too long.  It’s time to stop.  I’m getting irritable, even slightly panicky about replenishing my savings.  What saddens me the most is that I’ve lost something.  The spark that first ignited my thirst for other cultures has dwindled.  I want it back."  Ayngelina echoed Jeannie saying, "I’m done with the constant travel.  The nomadic lifestyle is not for me, I loved it for a year and a half but now traveling is becoming a chore. I miss the wonder and awe. It disappeared somewhere along the line. And I think many of you realized it before I did."

And, though not quite as dramatic because he's not ending his travels, Dave from The Longest Way Home, who has been traveling for 7+ years in search of a "home," complained recently that he was "frustratingly bored" by Southeast Asia.  So, he headed to Kathmandu, the first place he ever felt truly at home, because, as he says, "I want to take up my own challenge and make a place to live. I want to throw caution to the wind and join the elements for an adventure to the edge of the world."

About a year and a half ago, Christine from Almost Fearless posted that "Eventually, Everyone Stops Traveling," referencing two other popular travel/lifestyle design bloggers who decided to quit traveling.  Christine asked, "is the romance of the round-the-world trip actually burning people out on travel? . . . . I’m beginning to think the entire premise of a RTW trip is flawed. It’s as if we’ve collectively decided that if you’re going to travel, then you must cram as much actual traveling into that time as possible. Lest you miss something."

Us at the Leaning Tower of Pisa

Patrick and I are doing things very differently than most long-term travelers.  Because we've got Chewy and Abby with us, we move slowly.  In the last five months, we've been in only five countries, renting holiday homes/apartments for two weeks (or more) at a time.  We limit sightseeing to every other day at around 6 hours per day.  We cook most evenings, meaning that we're not packing on calories at mediocre restaurants every night.  We have our car with us which shortens most travel times.  We rent places with laundry machines, WiFi, and big beds, to mimic home comforts as much as possible.  Our dogs, amazingly, adapt to every environment in about 24 hours, eagerly scenting out the new places we stay in, creating as minimal disruption or annoyance to our lives as possible.

Even still, we are exhausted.

You see, we've been permanent travelers for 839 days.  We move establishments every two weeks.  I pick up a new language every month (while Patrick smiles and nods at my attempts to speak Spanish/French/Italian/German/you name it.)  We are constantly adjusting to new climates and cultures.  We find dog parks, walks, and veterinarians in every city.  We work every single day at least five hours per day.  (Last week, for example, we revamped our site while we were showing my parents around London.)  We never know the day of the week because we never take a "weekend."  And, sometimes, as Dani and Jess at Globetrotter Girls poignantly put it, we fear that we've become frighteningly forgettable as we struggle to keep up with our friends and families across the sea.

Yeah, we are exhausted.

. . . keep reading when travel loses its charm after the jump