Look beneath the surface and there’s always something. Always. That graceful silver-haired lady I complimented (this morning at the park) on having the gumption to dump hair color? Turned out she’s a backpacker, just a few years older than I am.  Back from Tawang. Off to Bhutan. And a survivor post-deep personal loss (We traded stories, this is my scab, what's yours?) Is the freedom to travel-- footloose, fancy free, pack on back and song on lip—a perk that has to be earned? Do we travel because we have to, or simply travel because we can?