Baggage Check

Yesterday, as I was beginning my walk, I spotted my neighbor, Jim. Jim retired last year at the age of 80 with some trepidation. He was worried about what he would do with himself and all the free time. I never faced any such concerns when I retired, or at any time since, but I understand that many people do. I hadn’t spoken to Jim in a while and as almost a year had gone by I asked him how he was settling into retirement. Had he found an ideal and enjoyable way to use his days? He admitted to me that he hadn’t quite figured it out yet but he had identified some things he didn’t like to do. He realized he hated traveling.

As you may recall from my post last week, I am in the midst of preparing for a trip to Japan and as he said that I realized in that moment that I hate traveling too! And yes, I have done quite a bit of it. I have been to every state in the U.S. I have traveled through Europe and the U.K. I spent three months on the Indian subcontinent moving about by steam engine train. And, of course, I have been to Israel 17 times most of which were on trips with 40 college students in various states of intoxication. So I can understand why you might be skeptical of my claim.

I have joked that my two favorite parts of traveling are packing to go on the trip and unpacking again at home. There is some truth in that. Anticipating and preparing for a trip is fun. You get to figure out what to bring. Maybe you need to buy some new, fun stuff. Then there is the jigsaw puzzle of how it will all fit in the smallest possible bag.

Coming home too, there is the joy of getting everything clean again and organized and put away and, of course finally sleeping in ones own bed.

But in between? Stress and discomfort. There are long plane rides to be endured (14 hours to Tokyo!). There are unfamiliar roads to navigate. Often (in the places we go) large, hungry mosquitos, moose, and the occasional bear. Sometimes there is no Apple Store for 1,000 kilometers.

Abroad there are people who don’t speak English, revolting, non-kosher foods, and no end of strange pillows, beds, and the dreaded public restroom. Not to mention, civil war, violence, tropical diseases, and foreign currency conversion calculations.

Why go through this?

I started running again about a month ago after having stopped back in 2020 during Covid. I started slowly. The first day I ran 500 meters. Then a kilometer. Now I am up to just over 6 km 3 times per week. I’m not sure why I stopped in 2020 . Nor am I sure what made me start up again. Truth be told, I don’t love running. I rather not, in fact.  But here’s what motivates me to do it:

• I think it’s good for me.

• It makes me feel stronger and more resilient.

• I always feel better for having done it.

The same, I believe, is true for traveling.

I think it’s good for me.

Traveling requires that you change your perspective on things and on yourself. You do things you weren’t sure you were capable of. You are forced to try new things whether you want to or not. You are asked to confront your deepest held beliefs and prejudices. Away from most friends, family, and the familiar rhythms there is an opportunity to step outside one’s identity to reimagine who you are or could be.

It makes me feel stronger and more resilient.

The more something scares you, the more you don’t want to do something, the more important it is that you do it. Remembering back to the 15 years or so that I rode a motorcycle, I recall that every time I started up the engine I’d wonder, “Will this be the day I get hit by a car and die?” I had more than one close encounter with a vehicle over those years. Each one scared the hell out of me. Yet, I knew that I couldn’t quit riding just because I was scared. Quite the opposite. I needed to do it because I was scared.

At the end of my semester in Germany in 1980 when I was 19 years old, I hitchhiked alone from  Munich to and through Yugoslavia. It was December and cold, I had very little money. At one point I got picked up by the police. I ended up stranded at the end of a day wet and hungry in Zagreb where I made my way to a train station and booked a fare I could ill afford to Florence to meet up with my roommate. I waited for the train for hours on the freezing platform talking to some dude who was friendly enough once he realized I wasn’t German. The train was crowded but warm as it crept slowly toward Italy through the long night. I was incredibly grateful to be on that train.

Perhaps I don’t need to explain why my memory of that adventure is only positive. It is at times of maximum stress that you glimpse what you are made of.

Sometimes the way is rocky and steep. Other times it’s just mud as far as the eye can see. Adirondacks, August 2009.

I always feel better for having done it.

It’s not that you don’t remember the discomfort of travel, it’s that the memory of the discomfort fades while the positive experiences glow brighter over time. Sure, I remember the time the train broke down leaving us stranded in the middle of Uganda for a day and a half. Yes, there was the time we journeyed 48 hours from Madras to Delhi while I was in the throes of, lets just call it, deep digestive distress. But looking back, these just don’t seem so bad, while standing at the top of Mt. Kenya or watching hippos illuminated by lightening ripping the tall grass from the ground right outside our tent feel among the most significant experiences of my life.

In terms of discomfort, I know pretty much what to expect on our upcoming trip. An interminable plane ride (in economy), many nights of poor sleep, being cold or wet or hungry or tired (or some combination of all four). And many, many moments of feeling disoriented, embarrassed, and lost. Experiencing these are valuable in themselves and actually enough to make the trip worthwhile.

With luck there may also be moments of delight, clarity, awe, and insight into the human condition or at least the condition of this particular human.

So yes, there is the part of me that would just as soon stay home. Here I sleep in my own bed, eat the food I am used to, dwell in the English language as a fish swims in water —without thinking about it. Not to mention the money that wouldn’t have to be spent. But there is another part that insists that the hard things, the scary things are what give texture, dare I say meaning, to life. That part tells the part that wants to stay home to shut the hell up and get on the bus.

Barbara and I embark on this trip both having had significant health challenges in the last two years. It is also our first trip aboard (not counting a Canada transit or lunch in Mexico last March in Big Bend National Park) since Covid so folded into a batter of apprehension is a heaping helping of gratitude that we are able to do it. At the age of 64, I can still toss a pack over my shoulder just as I did when I was 19, albeit with a higher probability of lower back strain.

As I cram my backpack with the things I imagine I can’t survive without, I can’t help but look forward to the day I unpack them again. In between those two dates lies a peregrination not always salubrious, but with the potential to kindle wonder and create memories to be recalled with pleasure —  at least once I am home.

The world’s a narrow bridge; fear nothing.