About three years ago I ceased to fantasize about travel. I stopped watching
the Travel Channel. Perusing Via Magazine from AAA stirred something in me that
was not yearning, but disconnect and irritation.
Oh, right, that was when I, at the ripe age of 43, finally got a real job, had real bills to pay, and was forced to grow up.
When I was a kid, traveling was exciting. Packing my own bag was exciting. I couldn’t wait to go, even if it was just a day trip. Your senses were enhanced, your sense of being was enhanced, you were in awe. And there was the notion of “anywhere but here”. I longed to be away.
In my 20’s, probably like everyone else, I had a list of countries I had to see “one of these days”, an ever-changing list. It always had Egypt on it. In my 30’s, reading articles and having a calendar of Greece up on the wall sufficed. In my 40’s, when reality hit that I had neither the time nor the funds to travel, I justified that I didn’t need to go anywhere. After all, with the internet at your fingertips, the world is, too.
Turns out seeing images of a buffet is far from tasting it.
Recently I had the obligation to travel to China on business. In my old age I prefer routine (and I was never spontaneous to begin with). Change is hard. The unknown causes anxiety. I was having all sorts of anxiety. (My therapist would say control issues. Duh.)
I slipped into the local scene relatively effortlessly. At a communal meal early on, I had this Bourdain moment: everyone was coming together, I was exposed to local ingredients being prepared to suit the locals’ taste, not mine, as they had been for centuries. And it was glorious.
I had some language barrier and a fair share of culture shock – that was to be expected. To my pleasant surprise, I did not feel out of place, or unwanted, as I had felt growing up or even in the States where I live. Even nationalist sentiments did not turn me off. I could, dare I say, relate. (Not in absolute terms but nonetheless.) And it scared me. I could imagine living there, being content, feeling accepted... I was at peace.
One evening before my departure, we were journeying on a quieter dirt road at dusk, just around a river bend under an overpass. I could see the dim lights lining the bank and the reflection on the water. The air was thinly veiled in smoke from leaves burning in a distance. Everything was a grayscale bathed in warm hues of gold. For a moment there, it might as well have been 19th century Paris. It does not get better than this.
That was when I remembered: oh, yes, I used to like to travel. And I remembered why.
I was transfixed and instantaneously transported to the winter in Belgium when I was 18. I was staying at my uncle’s and the occasion was my cousin Jojo’s impending wedding which no one was looking forward to, myself included. One chilly morning, in my crazy youthful defiant mode, I snuck out of the house so I could go to the park to a pay phone to call my then-boyfriend. And also to get out. My days were being planned against my will and I was feeling unhappy and suffocated (not unIike my childhood leading to that point).
I was the only one there. The sun hadn’t risen. It was twilight at its best. It had been snowing, and still was, ever so gently. I watched snowflakes fall with the street lamps as backdrop as I strolled, leaving boot prints on the blanket of virgin snow on the path. I strolled as if I'd never have to turn back. It was tranquil. It was freezing. It was magical.
I have often looked back to that moment citing how the world is SO beautiful when looked through young, unjaded eyes. I have missed that sense of wonder, and mourned it.
Until this recent trip. I may not be that doe-eyed lass any longer, but, oh, to have that sense of abandon again, to just observe, take in, and be. Oh, to be fearless, and exhilarated for being so. All may not have been lost after all.
Oh, right, that was when I, at the ripe age of 43, finally got a real job, had real bills to pay, and was forced to grow up.
When I was a kid, traveling was exciting. Packing my own bag was exciting. I couldn’t wait to go, even if it was just a day trip. Your senses were enhanced, your sense of being was enhanced, you were in awe. And there was the notion of “anywhere but here”. I longed to be away.
In my 20’s, probably like everyone else, I had a list of countries I had to see “one of these days”, an ever-changing list. It always had Egypt on it. In my 30’s, reading articles and having a calendar of Greece up on the wall sufficed. In my 40’s, when reality hit that I had neither the time nor the funds to travel, I justified that I didn’t need to go anywhere. After all, with the internet at your fingertips, the world is, too.
Turns out seeing images of a buffet is far from tasting it.
Recently I had the obligation to travel to China on business. In my old age I prefer routine (and I was never spontaneous to begin with). Change is hard. The unknown causes anxiety. I was having all sorts of anxiety. (My therapist would say control issues. Duh.)
I slipped into the local scene relatively effortlessly. At a communal meal early on, I had this Bourdain moment: everyone was coming together, I was exposed to local ingredients being prepared to suit the locals’ taste, not mine, as they had been for centuries. And it was glorious.
I had some language barrier and a fair share of culture shock – that was to be expected. To my pleasant surprise, I did not feel out of place, or unwanted, as I had felt growing up or even in the States where I live. Even nationalist sentiments did not turn me off. I could, dare I say, relate. (Not in absolute terms but nonetheless.) And it scared me. I could imagine living there, being content, feeling accepted... I was at peace.
One evening before my departure, we were journeying on a quieter dirt road at dusk, just around a river bend under an overpass. I could see the dim lights lining the bank and the reflection on the water. The air was thinly veiled in smoke from leaves burning in a distance. Everything was a grayscale bathed in warm hues of gold. For a moment there, it might as well have been 19th century Paris. It does not get better than this.
That was when I remembered: oh, yes, I used to like to travel. And I remembered why.
I was transfixed and instantaneously transported to the winter in Belgium when I was 18. I was staying at my uncle’s and the occasion was my cousin Jojo’s impending wedding which no one was looking forward to, myself included. One chilly morning, in my crazy youthful defiant mode, I snuck out of the house so I could go to the park to a pay phone to call my then-boyfriend. And also to get out. My days were being planned against my will and I was feeling unhappy and suffocated (not unIike my childhood leading to that point).
I was the only one there. The sun hadn’t risen. It was twilight at its best. It had been snowing, and still was, ever so gently. I watched snowflakes fall with the street lamps as backdrop as I strolled, leaving boot prints on the blanket of virgin snow on the path. I strolled as if I'd never have to turn back. It was tranquil. It was freezing. It was magical.
I have often looked back to that moment citing how the world is SO beautiful when looked through young, unjaded eyes. I have missed that sense of wonder, and mourned it.
Until this recent trip. I may not be that doe-eyed lass any longer, but, oh, to have that sense of abandon again, to just observe, take in, and be. Oh, to be fearless, and exhilarated for being so. All may not have been lost after all.
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