I was just thinking…of what I’ve learned about myself through traveling. People often encourage one to travel–“It’s a way of broadening your horizons!” “You learn so much about other people! Other cultures!” “You’re not the Ugly American anymore!”
All true, all trite, and trite because they are so true.
But perhaps as much as looking outward, I learned even as a teen-ager to look inward. Thanks to my husband’s love of travel, I’ve also learned to recognize some at times uncomfortable truths about myself, truths that at home, I would probably gloss over and ignore.
There must be a wanderlust gene somewhere in my husband’s lineage. And maybe a stick-in-the-mud-stay-home gene in mine. Over the past 50-odd years, we’ve travelled by ourselves, as well as with many different friends and relatives—children, beginning when our older son was eighteen months, and then four years later, adding our younger son to the mix; my mother, my father, and my aunt; my brother and his wife; my husband’s parents; my husband’s brother and wife, and their daughter and later, her family.
If I’d been paying attention, I might have realized my husband’s wanderlust as early as when we were planning our wedding. Amidst the wedding decisions about colors, flowers, bridesmaids’ gowns, tuxedos, etc., I left all the honeymoon plans to Hal, although he did discuss lots of ideas with me. Where could we go with only one week off from our teaching jobs (we were using Thanksgiving vacation; we were first-year teachers, fresh out of college with student loans to repay, and were not supposed to take “personal” days in those early years), and not much money saved from these first two months of teaching?
He chose Puerto Rico and the U.S. Virgin Islands. We would fly out from Baltimore on a jet to Puerto Rico, take an island hopper to St. Croix for four nights, and then back to Puerto Rico the last two. I had never been on a jet before, let alone out of the country, and this sounded romantic and adventurous.
Perhaps my first, tiny travelling epiphany occurred on that honeymoon. I recognized that I was afraid to try new things. No, I’m not talking about sex, which was wonderful, but about…scuba diving. Hal wanted to try it, but I was afraid and wouldn’t go—a little murmur in my brain whispered that I would look like a fool, and what if the mask broke, what if I couldn’t breathe, what if a manta ray came along and stung me while I was looking at the sea bottom, or a shark attacked me? I heard my paranoia but I didn’t face down those sneaky thoughts undermining my confidence.
After we were back home and settling into the ins and outs of marriage, I mused over the scuba diving suggestion and what my reaction had been—Hal hadn’t gotten angry because I wouldn’t try scuba diving, and in fact never mentioned it again. But I recognized that because of my fear, I had missed out on an interesting experience and, even more, had inadvertently prevented him from having that experience, too—and I was the better swimmer of the two of us!
Left to myself, I’d probably stay home year-round and travel only in my mind through the books I read. So another of the uncomfortable truths about myself has been, over the years, to determine why I don’t get as excited about traveling as Hal does. Do I tend to want to stay home because I’m lazy? Ummm. Because I’m afraid of strange places or people? No. Afraid of some random terrorist event occurring wherever we might be? Not really. Or because I don’t want to make the effort of packing—deciding what to take, what to leave at home, etc.? I think it’s mostly laziness!
Our yearly travels follow the same pattern every time. Hal gets that travel itch and starts broaching the subject to me. “We’ve never been to … Why don’t we go to…” I sigh. We negotiate when we might go, how long. He has a hard time at first pinning me down to a firm date (I suspect that he starts his negotiations about four to six months ahead of when he wants to go to gently coax me into going).
Something else I have learned through traveling is that my migraines are most often triggered by heat and humidity. Also, I love to garden, and when Hal is usually lobbying in the winter or very early spring for a vacation, I’m thinking about spring garden chores, planting dates, late-summer vegetable harvesting times. But I agree, knowing I will thoroughly enjoy wherever we go, whenever we go, whatever we do. My reluctance has lessened with each trip.
The next step in our pattern is researching the place(s) we will go. Hal reads travel books and brochures and researches web sites. He starts talking about the places we might go—we always like to see gardens, historic places, cathedrals, and museums. I read novels, subconsciously or sometimes not so subconsciously, choosing those set in the state or country we’ll visit. Only gradually do I begin to read non-fiction accounts of the people and places. Of course, just tell me that a favorite author lived where we’re going and I’m in!
And before I know it, suitcases are packed, camera is charged, and we’re off! What will I learn about myself this time?
I’m listening.
Maritta Perry Grau