All travel, in a way, is a form of masochism. Why else would we fly halfway around the world, hoist a heavy bag on our shoulder, and submerge ourselves into unknown languages, customs, currency? Sure, after time a little cultural assimilation is natural; we find ourselves naturally dropping a "s'il vous plait" upon ordering, we know to politely queue (or throw elbows), we find ourselves no longer fumbling through foreign coins and cash, proudly prouding the right notes almost instantaneously.
Everyone's threshold for masochism is different -- that's why for some, two weeks in Paris can be long enough to send anyone longing for the familiar routines at home, and others are ready to get down and dirty checking out the hotspots of, say, Rwanda for months on end.
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