it’s probably the buzz in the airports. that’s why travelling by rail or car just always leaves me wanting. it makes me feel excited and sad. panicky and hyper. i don’t really mind the stress – of packing and making it on time and the lines to check in or through security, in the foreign exchange or even at the cafes.
i love the journey. the excitement of getting there. and the sadness of having to go back to real life.
the earaches. the nausea – caused by being up in the air or just by nausea-inducing seatmates. the bland, overcooked food, or mayber none at all. the hard roll and the even harder butter. but, if luck smiles, they might just have surprisingly good desserts. the movie marathons on long hauls. the uncomfortable chair. all i’ve learned to accept as part of the package since i can’t afford any more than economy (but really, you can’t make me pay twice the price if there’s a cheaper option, the miser that i am).
and when you get there. when i get there, i’m just never too tired. the people. the food. the culture. the sights. even the air. it gets more and more familiar the more you travel. even when you’re some place for the very first time.
it’s no longer about the souvenirs. nor the pictures and the videos. i no longer need proof to say i’ve been. it’s the experience and the memories made. the feeling that’s always different. it’s what you remember from amongst the common and the seemingly ordinary.
the freshness of mornings in grindelwald. the breakfast croissants in paris. even the taste of that oughful liquor-laced coffee in venice. the colours of burano. the racism in singapore. the anxiety in luxor. good things. bad things. it’s a patchwork of memories. and things i could hardly capture in photos.