I like adventure. Adventure, however, comes in many forms, and truth be told, part of me is still the shy, timid child of two decades ago, content to think in solitude for long periods of time, happy with stillness and home.
But adventure is at least in part the pursuit of stillness. Paradoxically, when you venture into the snowy crags, into the wilderness, your movement slows time, forces you to pay attention to small things, to the whispers in your head, to where you end and the rest of the world begins.
It is similar when you (as a traveler on a shoestring) roam by yourself through the streets of Buenos Aires, Rome, Auckland, Copenhagen, Montreal, Orlando or Hong Kong, and listen to the pulse of each place, different and the same everywhere. In many ways, you are more alone in a train station in London, sitting at a tiny table with the flux of people surging in every direction, than you are even at the top of a mountain. Largeness in any form may help you find stillness, for you shrink by comparison, and occupy yourself with survival. Finding shelter, finding food, finding your way; beating the elements, whether they be natural or man-made.
This would be grim if you did not find a way to love it. But you appreciate what is larger than you and how you pay it homage, looking out from yourself unconsciously like the passing tourist you are.

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