Why do I travel?

Do I like to travel?

For anyone who knows me, this may seem like a “duh” question. I have spent the last month and a half in four different countries and I’m not heading home for another week. But somebody asked me again the other day: Do you like to travel? And I had to stop and think.

I love experiencing new places, yes. I love meeting people and learning about their cultures. I love getting to know a city and living there: finding a favorite café, a favorite grocery store, exploring the less-touristy areas, not just viewing the sites and moving on. I like experiencing the flavor of a place.

What I don’t love is packing, living out of a suitcase, navigating airports, dealing with extra fees that Ryanair sneaked onto my ticket. Saying goodbye to people I’ve only just met. Sleeping on a different mattress every night. Dealing with noisy roommates, nosy roommates, loud children on trains and planes and old people moving slowly. Trying to stay calm when my plane leaves the ground. Uprooting myself time and again.

In short: no, I don’t like to travel.

Recently, I spent two nights in Vaison-la-Romaine, working on a travel piece for another website. Vaison is a beautiful town, and I found plenty of ways to entertain myself. But as I wandered, I felt strangely sad. I know no one in this town. There is no one with whom I can remember this trip. And of course, everywhere I turned there were couples holding hands, families stopping for gelato, a middle-aged woman pushing her father in his wheelchair. I did not see other single travelers. I did not see anyone like me. And I began to feel self-conscious. People seemed to glance at me curiously, watch out of the corners of their eyes, wondering: What is she doing here all by herself?

Long-term Potential

And I’ve noticed something curious: lately I have tended to consider a place for its potential as a home. I could live here, I often think, or, Could I live here? In Vaison, the familiar thought struck me again, and I could only respond with weariness. Yes, I could live here. But I know I won’t.

Lately I have begun to question the value of travel in general. If I travel to find somewhere permanent, why travel at all? Why can’t I find one place and stay put, when going somewhere new only makes me miss my old home or feel sad that I cannot stay here? For once, I feel admiration for those who have lived their entire lives within a 30-mile radius.

To me, travel is like an addiction. I want desperately to find a home, but I cannot seem to grow roots deep enough to keep me in one place. My solution to most of my small problems is to get on a train, get on a plane, go somewhere else, keep moving. But maybe it’s time to find something, somewhere that works.