I have a confession to make: I have absolutely no idea what to write about. It’s not like I’m, oh I don’t know, traveling. I can’t appeal to your similar love of travel (or at least I assuming you love travel as much as I do) with lust-worthy photos of exotic locales. I can’t tell you where to dine in Singapore, or where to crash in Mozambique (though, stay tuned for a future #MotivationalMonday thanks to this here article from Fodor’s).
I have trouble narrowing down my travel-minded bucket list to a sensible number — let’s say, less than one hundred — to share and discuss. I want to see it all. I want to do it all — OK, maybe not all…
It’s hard. Talking about travel when you know you’re still a year plus out, when you’ve been a year plus out for as long as this blog has been around. I suppose in some regards I may have started Girl Gone Bali prematurely, but in the back of my mind, it’s always been there, the narrative for this here site. Every where I go, everything I do.
I want to travel. I want to see the world. I want to feel fat with happiness in France, eating croissants everyday (and most likely becoming quite fat in the process). I want Bali.
And then I realize that I talk about wanting and hoping and wishing so much that I must sound like the Boy Who Cried Wolf. So I start doing. Little by little, I back out of sugar-themed bar crawls (because who wants the cavities) and canceling reservations to fancy restaurants (granted, they were for Chicago Restaurant Week), and I start saving. I start doing. I stop wishing and start planning.