Lately I’ve been thinking about the strange irony of writing a travel blog while not actually traveling. In my heart, I’d like to think I’ll always be a traveler, regardless of where I am and whether or not I’m on the move. But it feels a little odd – like penning a child rearing blog because you occasionally babysit your sister’s kids or calling yourself a photography blogger because you happen to have glossy 18×24″ Ansel Adams prints hanging along your stairwell.
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Then I remembered a heap of prose that I’d written awhile back while in Montreal for a job interview. It’s been quietly collecting dust for nearly five years as a series of draft posts on my to-remain-nameless personal blog. The reason being that some of its content is a bit risque. And, at the risk of being dooced, I elected not to publish it, ever weary that potential employers might catch wind.
But, given that no one knows I’m here on Vagabondish, let’s throw caution to that wind and post them anyway. Here are the first few and I’ll be posting the remaining posts in the coming days.
It’s certainly not Pulitzer Prize winning material, but it’s nostalgic for me nevertheless. I like to see how much my prose has evolved. Or not. It was also the first and only trip I’ve ever taken alone. Plus, it makes me feel more like a real travel blogger.
(Note: I’ve dated all posts with the 2002 dates when the entries were originally written)