We all dream of leaving. Most of us tend to think if we lived in an exotic place, overseas, our storybook existence would be come a walking reality where woodland creatures really do sing and no one ever has to go to do real work. I will never put a halt in my plans of owning a art cafe in Maui, or stop scribbling the blueprints for my tree house in Costa Rica or saving for my trek through India. However, sometimes I start to drown in the depths of wanderlust and need to come up for fresh air. Once I surface, thoughts of elsewhere drip from my ears and I wipe the salty daydreams from my eyes, I notice that it is not all so bad here.
I get up extra early, because that part of the day when it is still not quite light is the most exciting and full of unknown and smells like vacation. After a good surf at the spot I know and love, I walk to my dear friends house for breakfast. Buttoning up my brightest Hawaiian shirt and cut off Levi shorts, I grab a disposable camera and ride my bike along the strand, stopping to buy churros or cruse through a farmers market and run into an old friend that invites me to join him in his evening adventures. I can let the whole day become invented and paint it as wildly as the watercolor in my fictional future. I think that some people dream of living here too.