Usually I am glad to be at home. A calm, reassuring environment, a place to rest, a place to enjoy the company of friendly people, good music and books, excellent food, a wonderful garden and silent moments if there is a need for such moments. My life is neither too boring, nor marked by permanent dramas or excitements. It is exactly what I want it to be. Sometimes, however, sometimes a painful urge to get away knocks me out of my routine. From one second to the next I feel the desire to pack, to board a plane and to discover new worlds, disregarding my responsibilities as a husband and father. They call it the travel bug, apparently.