Travel has always fascinated me because it should feel impossible. Every aspect of it should, to a normal person, blow their mind. The very notion that in some way or another, we transport ourselves from the comforts of home and find ourselves in what the locals here call home. To leave what we call home and step into someone else’s. And what you and I take for granted become the most incredible thing to someone else. We all know what the attractions are supposed to be where we live. But as if some exclusive club we unknowingly become a part of when we live somewhere, we also know where the real treasures are. What 5-star really means. And maybe we’re wrong, maybe the coffee on the corner really isn’t the greatest in the world. But it is to us, and that means infinitely more than thousands of reviews (and good riddance we say in selfishness as our treasure becomes ours alone to hoard).
But when we travel, out goes any ideal that it’s the locals that know. It’s the reviews, it’s the social media posts, it’s the recommendation from a friend of a friend who “went there once.” We carry other people’s opinions and mistake that for experience. It’s not our fault of course, I for one can’t speak Italian, but I can read the English menu quite well. I can’t speak Polish, but the owners at the tourist centre definitely can. But to really travel is to let go of the need to be a tourist on our holidays and to become a traveller. And this is a reminder to travel in a way that actually changes you. What a load of pretentious rubbish I hear you say. And maybe it is. Maybe this whole thing is. I mean who are we to go to someone else’s home and ogle at grand pieces of architecture that they could only dream to step foot in, to eat what they probably couldn’t afford ordinarily?
If you let me indulge myself, it all comes down to our why. Do we travel because it’s an escape? Do we travel because we think that’s what we should do as grown ups? Or do we travel because we are members of the human race. Because only through the eyes of those who live thousands and thousands of miles away we can maybe even begin to say to ourselves, “there’s a life outside of my own”. And how lucky am I? That I can say, yes, it’s time to tear down myself to let the experience of travel rebuild me and turn me into something that I could never have imagined. Scary. And maybe hyperbolic. But the point is, travel, real travel, changes you.
There is a specific kind of clarity that only comes when you are completely outside your usual element. Sitting in a small side-street stall, watching a city wake up, strips away the daily noise. The kettle hisses, scooters start up in the distance, and the street vendor remembers someone’s usual order before they’ve even sat down.
When travelling light with minimal baggage, you quickly realise how little you actually need. The focus shifts entirely from managing possessions to observing human interactions, tasting local street food, and listening to how different cultures navigate everyday life.
“Travel isn’t always pretty. It isn’t always comfortable. Sometimes it hurts, it even breaks your heart. But that’s okay. The journey changes you; it should change you. It leaves marks on your memory, on your consciousness, on your heart, and on your body. You take something with you. Hopefully, you leave something good behind.”
There is a common misconception that travel requires the burden of financial sacrifice or the dreaded idea of being sat somewhere for extended periods of time as our mode of transport whisks us away to the promise of a new adventure. And yes, while this is certainly travel, we do not need to go such great lengths to experience the life of those “well-travelled”. Within our own borders, be that our country, state, region, or even city, lies unique experiences, foods, and people. The only tragedy is that we take these things for granted.
It is perhaps a blessing for those who travel frequently for work who can appreciate the comfort of home without the trap of the contempt of home.
But why should this appreciation for home be kept exclusively by those who have the luxury of travel? It need not be. While the adage “we all have the same 24-hours” is true to an extent, our lifestyles dictate that our 24-hours are spent markedly different. And yet, I am to meet a person who can truly say that there is no time in our busy lives that there is no time for rest. Be that a weekend, a week, or a policy-mandated 3-month thank you from our employers. By any means possible, our precious moments should not be wasted by trying to fill our time with more work. But instead, give ourselves an opportunity to be brave enough to see something beyond the imaginary borders of “ordinary life” and make something of ourselves. This need not be dramatic. There is much to be done in the places we live. And for those who live in remote areas with only one path in and out of town, there will be a fork in the road somewhere. In life, there will always be a fork in the road. I wouldn’t dare tell you which path to choose. Maybe it’s the comfortable one. There’s nothing wrong with that, as long as you keep moving. Because one day both forks will be uncomfortable, and you’re still going to have to choose. And isn’t that exciting.
Live the forks of life without regret. For sometimes we choose the wrong fork, but beyond that there are infinitely many right forks that could never have been reached if we chose the right fork in the first place. The more experienced you would have made the right choice had you had your time over. But you would not be more experienced had you had made that choice in the first place. Let that serve as some comfort.
To have lived the human experience, we must travel. Because only then, do we realise that it was never about us. Or even the people we know. But the people we never will and because of that, the place we call home becomes just that. Home.