It’s been approximately 1 year, 7 months, and 8 days since I last took a gulp of that strange spirit called travel. You may not have noticed the change, but I did. And I think I’ve earned at least my first chip.
To be fair, I have traveled to Dominican Republic multiple times since 2010, but that’s my birthplace … so I don’t count it. And I did go to Costa Rica on a missions trip, but I don’t count that because that trip wasn’t about travel, or the people or exploring culture, but instead about service.
Why the exercise in sobriety, you ask? Most of my year and a half in travel remission has been voluntary, but I suppose it really depends on who you ask: my mind, my soul, or my wallet. I’ve purposefully stayed off TravelZoo, Kayak and TripAdvisor, and erase their e-mails no more than a minute after receipt to avoid temptation. I decided that as exciting as it was, I wasn’t going to live life by running away to a different country each year. In my case that meant establishing where “home” was. I don’t believe I’d done that before a couple of months ago. Once I stopped my frequent travel dreaming and travel planning, I could determine where home is.
Home is Orlando, Florida.
I also realized that in my adult life, after graduating from college, I hadn’t truly given the reigns of my future to a higher power than myself: God. So I did just that. I focused on being grateful for the job I had (i.e. my growing portfolio), the friends I had, the places and people in need that I could serve, and I served. In that, I finally found peace and rest. I didn’t need to cross the Atlantic to feel life was exciting. It already was, even if I stayed in Orlando.
I’ve made sure to convince myself, remind myself, of course, that it’s for my own good. I should be able to and must build up muscles to fight back my using travel as an escape. It was an escape from sameness, the unchanging landscape of life. Other times I used it to exchange responsibility for adventure, or to detach myself from a natural laziness.
But these days I catch myself wondering: Will it ever happen again? Will I willingly throw my money toward an adventure on this earth or pass on it, begrudgingly perhaps, in favor of the safer, more controlled outlet of ministry or adult responsibility?
I still yearn for Spain, the next country on my list. I imagine it. I dream about it. In many ways, I feel like I’ve already taken the trip. In late April, I roam the streets of Madrid at a quarter to noon, on a quiet Tuesday, until I find the Museo Nacional del Prado. After having doused myself in Goya, Picasso, and Dali for the day, I bring warmth to my bones at the chocolateria ‘round the corner from my place. I’ve stopped by, having heard their churros are not only soft and doughy but as crispy as they come. As customary, I dip my churro in the thick Spanish hot chocolate and hope my brain realizes the danger these calories pose to my hips much, much too late.
Don’t even get me started on Barcelona. The Casa Batlló, Parc Guell, La Sagrada Familia … paella and tapas! I wish I was more athletic so I could have a practical outlet for the surge of energy (and hunger) the thought of travel usually produces in me, when I let it.
Sometimes I wonder if by putting travel on pause I've unwittingly made it an excuse for putting everything else I’m supposedly passionate about on pause as well, including writing. Has sobriety cost me the color in my life?
I have to continually remember why I stopped traveling in the first place: changes happening in my life, my need to gain a sense of stability notwithstanding where I am. Have I surpassed these obstacles? I want to find out.
I suppose I can go back and make up for time lost … as a sort of test. I’ll write about Costa Rica, Dominican Republic and even Argentina. Why not? Sometimes you have to work with what you have. I’ll get in my time machine, pull the thrust and close my eyes. I’ll travel again without physically stepping foot on another continent, for now. I don’t expect much too fast. This machine is old, temperamental and hasn’t been used much in the past year. You can sense its rustiness, can’t you?
I’ll give it a whirl to get myself started. I miss the color. I miss the spark. I think I’m ready. Wish me luck.
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