Today I started the serious planning for my trip to New York and Boston in November. You know, the reserving hostels, shopping flights, scoping out the daily itineraries. The fun stuff for compulsive planners like myself.
It’s going to cost more than I would like, between $850 and $1000, depending on how frugally I eat and shop. I ruled out a week in Hawaii with my BFF because it was going to be about that much after all of her travel hook ups and I couldn’t justify the cost. But I’m still going to New York and Boston. Why that over Hawaii? For me, if I don’t come home from a vacation more exhausted then when you left than you’re doing it wrong. I want adventure. I don’t want to sit on a beach. I want to come home with stories.
It occurred to me that this trip is the perfect example of why I’m probably never going to own a house and a picture perfect grown-up life. I would much rather rent a room for my real life and go on adventures instead of paying a mortgage. I know I should probably leave the money in savings, where it sits in my Digit account, or use it to pay off debt (Which I am whittling away at, by the way.).