Good friends flew out last night for a month in South Africa. It isn’t solely a pleasure trip — though there will be plenty of pleasure associated with it. They’ve gone to meet and hold their twin granddaughters, born late last year. 

Thinking of them winging their way to another continent has revved up the armchair traveler in me. Seven years ago, I was in Africa, too, though a completely different part of it, west rather than north, near the equator rather than the Tropic of Capricorn. 

I was zipping around on the back of a zemidjan, learning about Voodoo, spotting baboons, hippos and elephants from the top of a minivan,  I was touring Benin from south to north, meeting my son-in-law-to-be and so many other good people, all of whom who welcomed me like I was their own. 

I was living fully in the way that travel allows, in the way I’ve been privileged to these last many years, in a way I hope to again.