The Worst Part About Travel

 The worst part about travel is stepping out the door.

Am I forgetting something? 
Will this tank-top be crucial? 
Do I have all my meds?

And what if _______ or _______ or ________ happens?? (Enter worst nightmares here.)

Exhibit A

The closer a trip gets, the more I feel like staying home...

I start noticing things — like how cozy my own bed is, how lovely my neighborhood is, and how much I depend on my go-to foods, my crammed drawer of “leg supplies,” and the hotline number of my surgeon.

I belong HERE, I think. Why should I go anywhere else?

I mentioned this feeling to my friend Mônica, who travels regularly between Philadelphia and Rio de Janeiro.

Mônica’s 85-year-old aunt, who also lives in Rio, has been a lifelong solo traveler. She told me her aunt feels that same pang every time she leaves — that illogical mix of fear and regret and wishing she could just stay home.

This July, they celebrated her aunt’s birthday with a retrospective gallery show of her travel photography!

That's who I want to be at 85!

In 7 days, 6 days, 5 days, 4 days, 3 days, 2 days, 1 day… 

I’ll be traveling to California to attend Book Passage’s Travel Writers and Photographers Conference!

I’ve been giddy about it for months. But as the trip approaches, my uncertainty builds to a crescendo. Leg pain is off the charts, I’m not sleeping well, and I’m anxious about making the long trip on my own.

Travel means leaping into the great unknown and bringing my unpredictable body along for the ride.

When the time comes, I step out the door anyway.

The journey is longer than expected — 14 hours door to door — but the “leg room” is plentiful, and I’m as comfortable as I can be.

Finally, at San Francisco’s baggage claim, I stand in a crowd of other travelers who look as exhausted as I feel.

It’s a chatty group though.

I meet Josh, an aspiring math teacher whose parents live in Palo Alto, and Clifton, a San Jose dad who’s there to pick up an exchange student.

On the periphery is that exchange student.

She’s wearily — and warily — edging further from the crowd and closer to the conveyer belt, which is still bare of bags. Around her neck is a blue lanyard with her first name “Lourdes” printed boldly, and in smaller type, the name of her program.

That’s when I remember — I sat across from her in the Philly airport just 8 hours ago! At the time, my mind was churning with my own issues, so I barely noticed the people around me.

“She’s flown from Santiago, Chile to Miami to Philly to San Francisco,” Clifton the dad tells me. “She’ll be staying with us for a year.”

I am overcome with awe.

This courageous high-schooler has traveled for two days — across the world — to reach a place she’s never been, join a family she’s never met, and go to school with kids who speak a language she doesn’t yet know.

When I step into my hotel room at 2 AM Philly time, I’m still thinking about her.

At that time of night, I can’t draw many conclusions, but I’m pretty sure of this one:

If the worst part about travel is stepping out the door, it’s also the best part.

Walk on,

Rebecca