For all the travel I do, you would never guess that I feel quite conflicted about it. All right, I said to myself recently, during one of my moments of malaise, let’s get at it. What is this about me and travel? What do I like, what don’t I like?
--I like all the walking and exercise we do, usually in places of extraordinary beauty.
--I like meeting people, both locals and other tourists.
--I get curious about the issues of the place where I’m visiting. I read an interview with the new Colombian president in the newspaper and was completely absorbed. I learned that the new Brazilian president is a woman, and a former guerrilla. I take more interest in reading about other places I’ve visited than I do at home: Lebanon’s rickety coalition government is even more vulnerable now that Hezbollah has resigned.
--I notice colors and shapes, light and shadows, and take photos.
--I love speaking Spanish.
--I read more, in general.
What I don’t like is the feeling that I’m self-indulgent, not contributing. In my paradigm, it’s OK to relax and hang out for two weeks—maybe three max—but beyond that is an indulgence, and self-centered. (For the record, we’re here for six weeks total, way beyond my permitted length). Then I feel guilty for not appreciating what I have given myself. “We shall be called to account for all permitted pleasures we failed to enjoy,” I read somewhere long ago.
I do get bored, and feel structure-less and goal-less, usually during the hot midsection of the day. But it doesn’t last for long.
My friend Diana, who like me, cohabits in two countries (Canada and Mexico) says she doesn’t see herself as “traveling” anymore; she just lives her life. Sometimes she’s living her life in Calgary, sometimes in Hawaii, sometimes in Mexico. I wonder, can I see travel as just living my life, rather than put it in a box that I then fight?
No comments:
Post a Comment