I love traveling. I enjoy everything about it, from
thinking of a destination for the first time to talking about it when I get back. I love journeys while I am on them, and
savor them afterwards with good conversation at home. I even like packing.
Unlike other humans, who think they are being interesting
when they say that traveling is a nuisance-- even though they know deep down that it is a privilege-- I relish plane trips.
My pleasure has to do with many certainties. One is
the knowledge that I am being carried along, allowing time to pause for me without my having to decide anything other than
my own entertainment. Another is the certainty that I have time ahead of me to enjoy as freely and selfishly as I please:
time to read, to write, to talk, to eat, to look, to take a nap, and to be served.
While others curse the hours lying ahead of them until
they reach their destination, I enjoy every minute. I think about what I shall do if the flight is a long one, and it comes
as a wonderful surprise if I actually experience one of the feelings I have foreseen.
For me, the journey represents a moment when I am conscious
of life, liberty, and dominion over time, quite unlike everyday routine. I carry time along with my luggage and my childish
longing to enjoy everything to the fullest.
Traveling with people I love, traveling on my
own, traveling and meeting people I will come to love. The way ahead is always new yet always familiar, always already seen
yet still to be seen, always desired and always memorable.
