For as long as I can remember, books have been the ultimate form of escapism for me. There’s nothing more relaxing than opening the pages of a novel and immersing myself in a new setting, meeting all sorts of unusual characters, without the anxiety of having to do those things in real life.
In a way, it’s kind of like taking a vacation without the crowded airports, stressful plane rides, expensive hotel rooms and jetlag.
On the flip side, though, reading about so many far-flung places can have the uncanny ability to inspire wanderlust even in the most die-hard of bookworms.
And so, despite preferring the comforts of living a near hermit-like existence, I have found myself browsing the internet for travel deals, dusting my suitcase and passports off and traveling to actual, physical places.
But all best laid plans have a caveat or two. For me, it meant that every getaway had to be the ideal location for literary activities – whether it’s reading Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban in cozy tea shop in London, or eating freshly made pasta in an Italian farmhouse while poring over my favorite passages of Under the Tuscan Sun, or lazing on a hammock on a remote Pacific island with a dogeared paperback of Lord of the Flies.