Well, really just Last Holiday. Ever see that? Its the movie in which she plays a woman who finds out she’s dying, so she jets off to Europe to live out her days and changes lives and falls in love and at the very end, finds out she was misdiagnosed and is actually not dying at all.

So her character, Georgia Byrd, hits up my old stomping grounds, the lovely and picturesque Czech Republic. More specifically, she goes to the spa town of Karlovy Vary (Carlsbad). Embarrassingly enough, I’ve seen this movie several times, but get distracted each time, because all I can think is, “I was there! I stood in that spot! I was on that bridge! I was RIGHT THERE!” And then I get this horrible pit in my stomach because at certain moments, the only thing that I want to do is go back to the Czech Republic. It’s that keep-you-up-in-bed-tossing-and-turning-at-night kind of longing that cannot be satisfied or quelled by anything except, of course, going back.

Speaking of movies bringing up that horrible, intense longing, I see posters for the sequel to The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants 2 EVERYWHERE. One of the promo pics is a shot of the four girls chilling on a rock overlooking the Aegean Sea in Santorini, and all I can think about when I see it is, “Damn it, I need to get out of my parents’ basement and go back to this.” Sometimes I look through my old pictures and that big mental Pandora’s box of memories opens, and all I can remember is whizzing up and down the cliffs overlooking the sea on our four wheelers after watching the sun set, with moon’s reflection on the water the only light guiding us back to our side of the island. It was one of the few things we did that week that just couldn’t be captured on film.

Why can’t globe-trotting be a real profession? There are plenty of ridiculous jobs out there, yet I can’t find a one that will let me travel the globe. How the hell did Samantha Brown and Anthony Bourdain do it? At the end of the day, I just get so frustrated that I’m at home working the 9-5 (and then some), and not off gallavanting with friends in the streets of Jerusalem’s Ben Yehuda, or clutching onto a Greek guy as he speeds down the highway out of Athens in the middle of the night, or stumbling around the Amsterdam’s Red Light District, asking prostitutes if we could put down the cash and just watch television.

Forget horrible exchange rates, lost passports and language barriers. The real problem with traveling is that you leave a little bit of yourself wherever you go, and therefore it is impossible to ever really feel complete.