I got the travel bug when I was quite young. My parents took me

When Magnus Carlsen, the great chess champion, spoke the words, “I got the travel bug when I was quite young. My parents took me and my sisters out of school and we travelled all over Europe. It was an eye-opening experience and, although I love Norway, I also enjoy visiting new countries. I don't get homesick,” he was not merely describing childhood journeys, but revealing a truth as old as humanity itself. For in these words lies the essence of wanderlust, the eternal call of the road, and the restless fire of discovery that has carried mankind from the first migrations across unknown seas to the stars we now gaze upon with longing.

To be touched by the travel bug is to be awakened to the vastness of the world, to perceive that one’s home, however beloved, is but a single chamber in the palace of Earth. Carlsen recalls that his parents lifted him out of the walls of familiar schooling and set him upon the roads of Europe. There, the boy who would become a world champion learned not only strategy on the chessboard, but also strategy for life: to embrace the unfamiliar, to find joy in strangeness, to walk unafraid into lands where the tongue, the customs, and the colors of life were all new.

This sentiment echoes the journeys of the ancients. Consider Herodotus, the so-called father of history, who wandered from Greece to Egypt, from Persia to Babylon, gathering stories of peoples and kings. Had he remained at home, his mind would have been no larger than his village, but in roaming he gathered the wisdom of nations. So too Carlsen, in his childhood wandering, gathered an openness that fortified his spirit: he learned not to wither when away from his homeland, not to be ensnared by homesickness, but to find strength in the diversity of the earth.

There is also a lesson here in courage. Many cling tightly to the soil of their birth, fearing that in distance they may lose themselves. Yet Carlsen proclaims, “I do not get homesick.” He carries Norway in his heart, yet does not allow it to chain him. Like Alexander the Great, who wept not for the lands of Macedonia but for new worlds to conquer, Carlsen shows that love of home and love of the wider world are not in opposition but in harmony. Home is not a cage; it is a foundation from which the traveler may leap.

The eye-opening experience of travel is not found merely in gazing at monuments or landscapes, but in perceiving the humanity that binds us all. A traveler sees the baker in Paris, the fisherman in Venice, the shepherd in the hills of Spain, and knows that though tongues differ, hunger, laughter, sorrow, and hope are the same. This is why wanderers, when they return, carry an inner calm. They have walked among many peoples and discovered themselves enlarged, less narrow, less afraid.

So, dear listener, the lesson is clear: if you would grow in wisdom, do not plant your roots too shallowly in one soil. Go forth, even if only a short distance, even if only for a brief season. Let the new countries and new experiences stretch your mind as they did for Carlsen. Do not fear the loss of home; your true home is not walls and roofs, but the heart that beats within you.

And what, then, are the practical actions for those who hear this teaching? Begin simply. Visit a neighboring town you have never seen. Break bread with strangers. Learn one phrase of another tongue and speak it with humility. If the road calls you further, cross borders and continents, carrying not only luggage but also an open spirit. Let travel become not an escape but an education.

Thus, in the words of Magnus Carlsen, we are reminded that the travel bug is not a disease but a blessing, a sacred spark that frees the soul from confinement. To love one’s home yet not be bound by it—that is true freedom. And to all who hear: may you, too, find the courage to step beyond the familiar, to embrace the unknown, and to return richer in spirit than when you first departed.