There are perfect travelers.
People who cross borders and languages in a way that makes you angry. Alex taught in Sardinia for a month on what I think was two semesters of Italian and used the thousand Euros to travel the Continent and the UK for four months. She was a family cook in Germany and a goatherd in Switzerland. She missed crew and snuck into the employees-only bit of the boathouse in Florence, and when they found her she ended up with an appointment to scull under the Ponte Vecchio. Which cut short her impromptu rendezvous with a beautiful Australian who had to catch a train for the Himalayas in the morning.
Then there are graceful travelers. Here am I.
Airport waits don’t bother us and we’d let the TSA stare at our tackle for free if it gave the sweaty masses an excuse to stumble through the security line faster. Strange food and strange people and strange languages don’t put us off; we feel more or less at home wherever. Which might be, in my case, because I’ve got no real home.