Travel not to find yourself, but to remember who you’ve been all along.”
—Anonymous
This year I had planned to fill this blog with travel news and photos from Scotland and Amsterdam brimming with quirky houses and cobblestone streets. I envisioned Instagram-worthy pictures: me, dressed in cute cropped jeans and pointed-toe flats in front of kaleidoscope flower carts, their colors spilling onto the canal’s water below. I’d be all smiles, cheek-to-cheek with the flower vendor—a new friend—cradling a bouquet of white tulips.
Isn’t that what bloggers do?
And then, I imagined, I’d write about visiting Anne Frank’s house; how the air was thick from the tears and prayers of so many before me, just like that air I waded through in the 1,000-year-old churches in France and Italy years ago. Oh, how that experience stays with me! And then, I’d describe how palpable that poor girl’s plight felt, how it sickened me, and how her tragedy had seeped into my soul and changed me.