I finally did it – fifty countries, just like I said I would, but watching the sun drop into the Adriatic at 7:14 PM tonight, all I felt was this dull, throbbing anger. It’s supposed to be this huge achievement, right? The culmination of years of scrimping and planning and pushing myself (God, the pushing), but I just… I wanted to be on the next plane, already scanning flight prices for somewhere new, anywhere but here, standing on a beach with the warm sand still clinging to my boots. What’s wrong with me, that even after all this, the objective is met, the mission accomplished, I just feel this empty impatience, like I’m still waiting for the actual explosion?