Transit junkie

One of the constant laments that I hear from my friends back in the States is that they would love to travel – they’d love to dive in Australia, see the pyramids of Egypt, or finally make it to India – but who wants to spend that much time in transit? And indeed, this subject was raised in the comments of Marcus Sortijas’ recent article here on Vagablogging.

Within context I suppose it’s true. Who wants to spend 12 hours in transit when you only have about 2 weeks to travel? Who indeed? Well…me. I almost feel as if this is the jumping off point for many coming of age vagabonders. In my late teens and early twenties I road tripped all over North America, and at the time I was young enough and foolish enough to think that everyone approached travel the way that I did. That was until I took a 12 hour bus ride from California, through the dessert, and into Las Vegas with my friend Charlene. I’ll never forget the teary-eyed fulfillment in my heart as I watch the beauty of the sunset behind the mountains. I dreamily looked across the aisle at my companion only to find her steaming like a teapot in frustration. When our bus pulled into a sweet little ramshackle diner in the middle of the dessert, she exploded with exasperated questions. “Why are we stopping?” and “Why aren’t we there yet?”

Perhaps it was in that moment that I realized that these 2-week travel sprints were not for me. First and foremost, I relish the zeal of transit. Not only is it the beauty of the countryside while in transit that appeals to me. It is a moment when my own intensity is moving at a proper speed. I imagine there are a lot of us that feel at home in the constant hum of motion we feel while in transit.

I can never sleep while in transit. Even after being awake for days approaching the end of a trip, I am bouncing and wide eyed out of the window of the plane, train, tuk tuk, etc. The motion feels natural, inspirational, and I find myself lost in the scenery or scrawling in a journal. Gaining ground over the beautiful English countryside, or through the shantytowns of Honduras, it’s still a matter of land that becomes a part of you, and it’s almost more appealing to me than wandering ancient ruins or staring up at precious artifacts in a museum.

I feel as if this aversion to transit speaks of something greater in the American subconscious.  Traditionally, Americans can measure their success by how quickly they find the job that they’ll do for the rest of their lives; how quickly they find their career. It’s the same idea of running to stand still. What about the journey to that place? What about the road to get there? After all, the journey to any given place – be it a fixed location or merely a stage in life – is equally, if not more, mysterious than that place itself. We can speculate how we’ll feel while gazing at the Eiffel Tower for the first time, but you’ll never be able to predict the shenanigans you will experience on a 8 hour train ride into Paris.

 Lucky for me I have 16 hours of delicious driving to do this weekend.