My parents wonder why I do it. My friends, co-workers and strangers wonder too. To be honest, I occasionally find myself wondering as well. Especially when I have to leave behind best friends, mom’s cackle and Sandys' cheeseburgers. We all wonder why I need to travel so much. Why I feel the overwhelming desire to leave a perfectly good job and Texas-shaped pool to wander into a country I’ve never seen. I’ve been trying to answer this question lately, and here’s what I’ve come up with:

I travel to discover. As I get older, it becomes harder every day to find something I’ve never before seen or experienced. One of the miraculous things about Australia is that 80% of its flora and fauna don’t inhabit any other part of our world.

I travel to forget the barriers and stereotypes I’ve been taught to believe. By traveling to Afghanistan, I’d be sure to find that not all Afghans hate Americans. I can only hope that by being a friendly (not overbearing) American, I can tear away some of the awful American stereotypes as well. Lord knows the English would love to slash the "bad teeth" reputation.

I travel to meet other people who love to travel. Travelers love to share stories of their treasured places and haunting disasters. They know not to rent a Smart car in Germany, no matter what the car rental people tell you.

I travel to regain trust in the world and in strangers. Regardless of planning, many times my fate is left to the people surrounding me and I’ve found there’s no point in being doubtful. That guy on the street generally wants to help me as much as I want to be helped.

I travel to rediscover old friends in new ways. When I think of sharing Europe with Heather, I may not remember admiring the fine details of Michaelangelo with her, but I remember that she admired her first zucchini pizza.

I travel to be terrified and thrilled at the same time. I’m shaky with the undertaking of Australia, but ecstatic too. This mix of emotions reminds me that I am alive and there is no greater experience than truly living.