I never get tired of looking at the Sartorialist, but this morning I'm particularly in the mood. I've been jonsing for travel. Not a vacation. Travel.

I want to explore the streets of a strange city. A city where I don't know the language, the currency, or the proper way to tell a persistent guy to go fuck himself. I want to point to something on a menu with the slight panic that I might end up with pig brains, instead of the fragrant, garlic chicken that I see on the next table. I want to chat with fellow grizzled travelers in eccentric hotels. I want to drink high octane espressos in side street cafes hoping to purge the vague headache from last night's wine.

High adventure isn't on the table this year, but we've still got many mini-adventures coming up.