The Trouble with Travel
We humans tend to like familiarity. That’s why it can be so difficult to get people to change their minds, even about stupid little things like what brand of toothpaste they use. We tend to like our routines, but they can wear us down over time, which is why we take vacations. Travel often makes us appreciate those things that we are so familiar with and can make us realize what things we take for granted. I love to travel, but it is not without its problems. Packing is the first thing that comes to mind. I hate packing. I enjoy thinking about packing, and I usually do that for weeks before the trip, but do the actual packing in a mad scramble the day before (read “of”) my departure. This usually means those careful packing plans I’ve been thinking of for weeks go out the window. Depending on the size of suitcase this can be fine; I just pile a bunch of stuff in if I’m checking a bigger one. I usually prefer to carry on if I can, but often have to check because of footwear. I have large feet, twelve or thirteen depending on the brand. This means that if I need more than two pairs of shoes I am basically forced to check a bag, because one pair will literally take up twenty-five percent of the carry on suitcase. If it’s a weekend trip it’s fine, but anything longer and I’m in trouble.
Travel also forces me to deal with time zones. I don’t know why, but my mind has an incredibly difficult time handling time zones. I understand how they work, but the actual math confounds me. Trying to figure out what time it is back home or how long I’ve been traveling apparently involves more brain power than I possess. On a recent trip to visit friends in New York I left at 2:30 pm and arrived at 9:30pm. On the way back I left at 7am and got home before 10am. That is why I hate time zones. The difference between the time it takes to travel the same distance in different directions just turns me around. For some reason I can’t stop myself thinking about it when I travel. I never know what time it is anywhere else. And don’t even get me started on my lack of understanding the international date line.
Once I make it to my destination it becomes abundantly clear that I am a bit more of a creature of habit than I think most people are. Even my body likes the familiar, which it shows by ceasing a certain function when I travel. I have a difficult time pooping when I am away from my own toilet. My body seems to go on lockdown. On that New York trip I mentioned, I was with friends for two weeks and managed to poop maybe twice. It is a problem that begins the second I leave the house, regardless of what method of travel I use. I suspect there is a major psychological component to this, because the thought of having to sit down in the airplane or gas station bathrooms terrifies me. I say a silent prayer of thanks that I stand to pee every time I enter such places. Airport bathrooms are hit or miss; I have been in some horrendous ones and some lovely ones, but gas station bathrooms tend to be the stuff of nightmares.
I typically travel alone, which is great because traveling companions can make or break a vacation. There are some people who like to have a planned itinerary and know exactly where they’re going and when they’ll get there and how long they will be there. Then there are others who just like to go to a place and figure it all out as they go. These different types are the extremes of the spectrum. I usually fall somewhere in the middle; I like a structure but I don’t need to stick to it rigidly. For people who are on those ends of the spectrum, traveling with each other can be hell. My parents are that way. Dad likes everything timed to the minute, to the point that he would have us synchronize watches on family vacations. Mom likes to wander. It caused some pretty hilarious fights when I was growing up. It’s yet another reason I prefer to travel on my own; I don’t have to worry about coordinating with anyone else.
As wonderful as travel is it is always nice to get home. The problem is that I often need time to settle back in; a vacation from the vacation. I try to give myself a day or two to recover after a trip before I jump back into my regular life, but that doesn’t always happen. The most jarring are the times when I have to immediately resume my routine after a longer trip. It’s like I’ve forgotten how normal life works and have to relearn on the fly. Combine that with jet lag and you have a beautiful disaster.
Unpacking is one of the things I hate doing the most. My suitcases have been known to sit for weeks after I get back from somewhere. It’s the sorting of the mess; doing all of that laundry and finding places for any things that may have been picked up on the road. It really drives me nuts. There are times I think it would be better if I traveled more because I could just keep a bag packed at all times. Then I could have designated travel clothes that go from the bag to the washing machine and then back to the bag. Or if I just never traveled, and took that step I think of all the time and just became a full blown hermit. There are many days when I consider pulling that particular trigger. Although it will probably never happen, because as much of a creature of habit as I am, I do like a change of scenery every once in a while, leaving me stuck in this cycle.