When you first dive into the long term travel it’s a deep dive. It’s an extreme and passionate experience, as much physical as it is emotional. In the moment, you probably don’t even what’s going on – but the feeling of bliss is irreplaceable. You develop astonishingly profound relationships with strangers in seconds and have no idea what country you’ll be waking up in tomorrow. You quickly realize that taking the initial leap, and doing this trip – however long the trip was projected to be- was the right decision, no matter the stage of life you were in. You then return after those incredible months to normality, renewed with new vigor.
I’ve been doing this travel and backpacking game for quite a bit now, and while I appreciate each leg of the journey, my traveling, and my desires as a traveler are changing. As much as I love the hyper social environments of hostels and couch surfing, sometimes after awhile, it feels stale- I can be in a hostel in Paris, Bogota, or Tel Aviv and I would be doing the same thing. I’m worn out repeating “my story” to my fellow solo travelers around the breakfast or happy hour table. Instead of getting old, I’d like to say I’m maturing as a traveler, after being molded by it since 2015. Like most, my 2020 plans had to be refocused and shifted; what I didn’t expect was that it would lead me back to my birthplace, in Ohio, the place I vowed to never be in for more than two weeks again. At first I would have expected pity as I drove back to the nothingness of cornfields and decaying towns, but it has made me reflect on some important aspects of life as a traveler:
I am not as self aware as I thought I was. After my first around the world trip, I thought that I had such an open mind compared to my fellow Ohioans; that I was a lot more aware of myself and the world and how we all have a part in it. This mentality is what I like to now call the ego, and boy he was fell fed at the time. It wasn’t until returning to Ohio amidst a global pandemic that I realized, I didn’t know myself as well as I thought I did. This was scary to realize, but rewarding to learn. In my experience, travel teaches you a ton about the outside world – how to speak in different languages, how to communicate beyond words, budgeting with little income, and how to be social are some that first come to mind. It definitely can boost your sense of self, but did all my time hopping from hostels and seeing sacred sites teach me about the divine, the light, energy within me? I don’t want to say I haven’t done any self discovery traveling – it was my two weeks (LITERALLY ALL MY VACATION TIME FOR THE ENTIRE YEAR!) in Mexico that made me realize I had to ditch my salary 9-5 job and get outta’ Ohio. But it’s difficult for inward growth when you’re stimulating yourself each day with the craziest parties, adventures, and marvels amidst constantly being in transition- waking up in new cities each night, and seeking that next dose of dopamine. Being in one of the most boring states in the USA made me realize that there’s still much of the ‘journey within’ myself that I have neglected over the years trotting the world. And exploring myself has been just as satisfying of an adventure. I now want to travel in a way that will honor both the internal and external journey.
Returning doesn’t mean reverting. A typical element in American literature is that the protagonist leaves home to become the strongest version of themselves. Dorthy left Kansas. Huck Finn left Missouri. Moana left her island. I left the shores of Lake Erie. The protagonist must embark on a journey to push themselves beyond where they came from. Leaving home, they become the most strongest version of themselves by doing things beyond what they knew they were capable of doing. When I returned home, I felt as if I was devolving back to my 15 year old self- it felt as if I had lost everything that I became before leaving. (OK- so listening to the throwback 00’s emo/punk music on repeat didn’t help, that’s for sure, but it was more profound than that.) Somedays, it felt like my sleepless nights in Tel Aviv, or overcoming sickness in Bolivia, or knowing Buenos Aires like the back of my hand…never happened. As if those events were randomly hallucinations, mere figments of my imagination. I realized that travel is a verb, an action. But I may have been influenced by travel what I was more than just that. Many nature walks/runs later, I was able to reconcile that the only thing that has changed about me since leaving home was being a traveler; traveling was rather the catalyst to spark my growth, and that just because Ohio hasn’t changed doesn’t mean I didn’t. Overcoming this illusion can be scary – because those who knew you from before might now know how to react. Even if the scenery is the same, you are not.
My favorite memories while traveling are quite simple. Sure, I have hiked the Cinque Terre and marveled at the preservation of Pompeii, but what are my favorite memories while spending 3 months in Italy? Dinners with my Italian relatives. Hearing stories about my mom, grandma, and her crazy family. Yeah, I’ve hiked to Machu Picchu, I’ve seen the Amazon Rainforest, but my favorite moments while backpacking through South America? Conversations on the beach or grabbing a coffee and getting lost in the streets of some city. This isn’t to be that hipster preaching that traveler vs tourist gospel. I am a proponent of seeing Christ the Redeemer in Rio, climbing the Eiffel Tower; there is some value in touristic sites. In Rome, I didn’t see the Sistine chapel, or visit any museums. Some may say that was at my loss, however I disagree. Running through the streets, reuniting with long lost friends and family, and enjoying the countryside were just fulfilling pursuits. My favorite moments in traveling are little ones, where I feel completely lost in the present moment. Where maybe I can pretend that I, too, lead a life here, even if just for a few days.
Traveling is as much an action as an art. Anybody (ok maybe not anybody) can hop on a plane and find themselves in a new place. But if you can master the art of traveling, the core to what it teaches, that’s when happiness isn’t found in the next destination. The art of traveling is rooted in curiosity, risk taking, adventure, constantly learning, looking at the same thing with fresh eyes, letting go of anything that weighs down your essence, and most importantly, being present wherever you are. No instagram, plane tickets, or stacks of cash required. When you first left home on that first trip, you were putting to test all the credentials that your upbringing forged you to having. But travel is a teacher, too. Beethoven said to “not only practice your art- but to force your way into its secrets, for that and knowledge can raise men to the divine.” And as I continue to travel, I still wonder if I would have had these same realizations if I stayed home and became a Spanish teacher, like I thought was going to be the case. I will never know for certain – I can only go onward, forcing my way step by step into the secrets of travel- finding the adventure in the ordinary, turning each moment extraordinary. Just as travel has changed me over the years, the way that I practice travel, will change, too. But isn’t that what makes travel exciting, anyways- to delve into the unknown – head first, no knowing where you’re going exactly?
