The travelling was always there.

From the very beginning; like an errant gene, like a continually open mouth demanding food, an affliction that could never and would never heal. The constant craving simply to go and see what else is out there permeates my life story. Wrapping it all up in the written word came somewhat later but is every bit as omnipresent. 

As a teenager, I travelled solo through Iran and Afghanistan, spent weeks as the only foreigner on an overcrowded ship traversing the Indonesian archipelago and crisscrossed the deserts of Australia. I’ve trekked through the tribal villages of the Golden Triangle, journeyed overland to Damascus, and returned repeatedly like a lost dog to the weird wonderland that is Calcutta. 

In my twenties, I led sailing trips down the Nile on feluccas in Upper Egypt and escorted small groups into Sudan. In the dying days of Eastern European communism, I travelled extensively behind what was then the iron curtain before it slammed shut for good. I’m a French-speaking Francophile, and include Paris, Australia, the Middle East as places that were for moments in time called home.

I’ve checked into some of the most opulent hotels on earth, from remote palaces in Rajasthan, complete with maharajah in situ, to the mad modernist excesses of Miami Beach’s Faena Hotel, but also places so utilitarian they should’ve been paying me to stay there. I’ve immersed myself into off-grid and down-to-earth adventures, from sleeping out under the stars in the fabulous Kimberley region in Australia’s remote North-West, to hiking in the Judean desert next to the Dead Sea or bedding down on the floor of a tribal hut. 

If the old adage about travel broadening the mind retains any validity, my head should probably be about ready to explode by now. In the meantime, I’ll continue with what I’ve come to love as much as the travelling itself… writing about it.

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