I never know what to answer when people ask me why I like to travel. It really is a dreary outlook when you think about the endless hours squashed between strangers, the hard beds and lumpy pillow, the exceedingly pesky mosquitoes, and the river of sweat running down my neck. And to think that my left arm and leg went to pay for these miseries; I start to ask myself the same question.
Why do I like to travel?
Instead of coming up with some deep, philosophical answer, like “to broaden and enlighten my understanding of the world and myself through experiencing different cultures and customs” (although that does have a certain ring to it, I do admit), I simply answer “because I can.”
Because I can and I want to. Then I can say I been there, done that. And brag about it.
Really, what else besides the few thousand pictures and a couple pounds of elephants that grow heavier every day, do we take back with us? Pictures only capture a specific moment, not replace an experience. Elephants and Buddha statues are good for a taste of traditional souvenirs, but they sit around collecting dust as the memories fade into wisps of long lost yesterdays.
We are products of our experiences, a culmination of all we see and do. By sharing our stories, we start to tap into the infinite knowledge of the universe. Someone once said that we are part of a university of 6 billion people; we share and learn and grow, together and apart.
Traveling is about losing yourself and finding something new. I travel to absorb, to observe, to witness. I travel to stretch my comfortable bubble of existence and to not only crawl out of my shell, but change its color and texture before I inevitably go back in. Most important are the interactions we have with others—while in other cultures and at home.
I’ve been in Thailand for ten days now, and yes, I’m going to tell you about it. I've earned a few bragging rights. With any luck, we’ll both learn something in the process.
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