There are moments when I feel something stirring inside me. Not uncomfortable, more like a quiet pull. A reminder. As if part of me is saying: Hey, there’s still so much out there. When are we leaving?
Wanderlust, for me, is more than just a mood or luxury. It’s a true necessity. It has two sides. One craves tranquility. Places where I can truly be myself. No expectations, no schedules, no roles to pretend. Just me, exploring an unfamiliar city, maybe with a pair of headphones, soaking in the moment of blending into the world for a while.
The other face of longing dreams of sharing. Of experiencing a moment with someone who takes it in just as deeply. A discovery that truly comes alive only through two pairs of eyes. Some places call out to you: Come alone. Others whisper: Bring someone with you.
That might sound strange, but if you know it, you know exactly what I mean.
The Pacific Northwest, Reimagined
The Pacific Northwest has had me in its grip ever since I first went there. That particular quality of light. The silence between the trees. The grey of the sky that somehow feels not heavy, but honest. It’s one of those places that gives me the space I sometimes urgently need. Mental breaks. No big thoughts, just breathing.
For a long time it was always the American side that drew me in. That won’t be possible for a while, and anyone following the current state of the world will understand why. But the beautiful thing is: Canada is right next door. And Canada has had its hold on me for some time now.
In March, I was in Vancouver. That city has something that’s hard to put into words. It feels simultaneously open to the world and calm, urban, and yet close to nature. I walked through neighbourhoods, listened to music, drank coffee, watched people, and felt that familiar stillness I love so much about this part of the world.
Now I feel the pull to go back. Vancouver Island sits near the top of my list. I don’t yet know why it draws me so strongly, even though I haven’t been there. But some places send their energy ahead of them. Vancouver Island is one of those places for me. A spiritual place, in a very personal sense. I think I simply need to go and then understand why. Alone. With myself.
Japan: When a Film Explains a Feeling
In 2019, I went to Japan for the first time. And since then, that country hasn’t let me go.
It wasn’t Tokyo, not Kyoto. It was Shikoku. Ten days walking part of the Henro, the old pilgrimage trail. I joined in from Matsuyama, with someone by my side. Japan introduced itself to me not through city lights and crowds, but through temples, forest paths, and a kind of quiet that gets under your skin. I hadn’t known that combination before. Completely foreign, and yet completely at peace.
Tokyo, I only know from its airport. A layover. And even that was an experience, that first glimpse of something vast and humming, just out of reach. The city itself is still waiting for me. That alone is reason enough to go back.
Which is perhaps why Lost in Translation hit me the way it did. Bill Murray sitting in a taxi, letting Tokyo simply wash over him. The lights, the glow, the strangeness of that city that somehow doesn’t feel threatening. That gaze out of the window, half sleepy, half overwhelmed. I’ve since declared this film one of my absolute favourites, for reasons I don’t particularly want to explain in full. Some things are better when you simply feel them.
Japan is far from finished with me. There’s so much there I haven’t yet seen, heard, tasted, or experienced. And this time, Japan isn’t a place I want to discover alone. It’s a place waiting to be shared. Sitting together in a Tokyo taxi and saying nothing, because the city speaks loudly enough. That’s what I picture, and that image makes the longing just a little bit bigger.
London: Loud, Crowded, and Exactly Right
In May I’ll be giving in to another longing: London.
I know what some people think. London? Loud. Expensive. Overcrowded. Yes, all of that is true. And yet I love this city in a way that sometimes puzzles even me. London is a city of contradictions, and that’s precisely what makes it so special to me.
You walk through narrow, busy streets, the rumble of the Underground at your back, a thousand people around you, and then you turn a corner. And suddenly you’re standing in a park. Green, wide open, quiet. Right in the middle of this roaring city, as if someone pressed pause. London has so many of these places, and I think I search for them anew every single time. One moment in the middle of all the trouble, the next in restorative stillness beneath a tree.
And then of course there’s the vinyl. London, for me, is always a journey through record shops as well. Browsing through shelves, discovering albums I don’t yet know, or finding something I’ve been searching for a long time. Music and travel are inseparable parts of my life, I’ve written about that here before. In London I can have both at once. Walking through a city while simultaneously travelling through sound.
Scotland: An Open Question
And then there’s Scotland. In autumn.
Scotland isn’t entirely new to me. I know Glasgow, though only in fragments. Once for work, once for a New Model Army concert, one of those flying visits where you brush past a place rather than really get to know it. That doesn’t count. Or at least not enough.
Edinburgh is genuine new territory. And that’s exactly what makes the longing so interesting. Not a longing for something familiar, but for something that has already announced itself in my imagination. Wide open spaces. A certain roughness. History that speaks through the stones.
And here too I sense that this place shouldn’t be a solo adventure. Scotland feels like somewhere you want to experience together. Not side by side, but with each other. Wondering together, falling silent together, maybe freezing together. I’m going with an open curiosity, and with the wish that someone will be there who shares it.
Longing as a Resource
It took me a long time to understand that this longing isn’t a flaw. Not a sign of restlessness or dissatisfaction with everyday life. It’s a part of me, and it enriches my life in a way I no longer want to be without.
Giving in to it is balm. For the body, for the mind, for the soul. It’s the permission to be curious. To let yourself drift. To be moved by a place you didn’t yet know. Sometimes alone, with yourself as your only company. Sometimes shared, where every experience gains a second depth through the telling.
And sometimes simply sitting in a taxi, forehead perhaps lightly pressed to the glass, letting a foreign city wash over you.
That’s enough. That’s all.
That’s everything.
Edited with the friendly assistance of Grammarly.
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