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I blame my parents. They dragged me off to Canada when I was five, then shipped me home to visit with my grandmother when I was eleven. Three glorious weeks catching double decker buses in London, going to the Tower, Hyde Park, the Planetarium and eating bread-n- drippin’ for breakfast and I was hooked. A few more family trips to England and Mexico City solidified my conviction – I was born to travel.

I spent four years between high school and university just bumming around North America and Europe. In those glory days all you needed was a backpack and your thumb. A month sweeping streets or eight weeks priming tobacco and you were good to go again. I think I saw every art gallery and gothic cathedral between Oslo and the Pyrennes that I could pack in.

Marriage and kids didn’t settle me down much either. We spent a year in Bangladesh and another in Germany with three kids in tow, and toured as much of the surrounding countries and sights that we could, including the Alps (skiing St. Moritz) and the Himalayas (staying in Kathmandu). We swam in the Bay of Bengal (nearly losing our borrowed Jeep to the tide!) and the Adriatic. We climbed the Eiffel Tower and the cliffs of Dover and had a wonderful time doing all of it.

Fortunately God was good enough to give me a wife who not only understands my love of travel, but shares it. An old adage runs “If love is the food of life, then travel is the dessert.” To which I can only respond “Can I have another helping?”

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