The travel paradox: finding home

No matter how many times I explain it, it doesn’t make any sense. Traveling is the most wonderful and terrifying thing in the whole world, bringing all your senses to life and shaking them at the same time. You travel to get perspective—to lose yourself entirely and then build back your identity piece by piece—shedding any unnecessary part of your true self. Until you’re left with what really matters.

The delicate process follows as such: the touchdown of the airplane in a new country—the instant humidity and mold smacks you in the face with the smell of adventure. Adventure that’s entirely out of your control. And in that same moment, a man falls down the escalator behind you, his teeth and chin solidly hitting each metal step, until he's lying in a pool of blood at the bottom, yet there are no tears. And you're instantly humbled, reminded of your mortality. You're part of something bigger–a society that lives and breathes. And even dies.

Your cab takes you to the hotel—your oasis from the honks and poverty, but at the same time away from the precariousness of life—the religious sirens, the pollution, the mix of street spices and the families of five to eight balanced on a motorcycle. The juxtaposition of an endless breakfast buffet one block away from the slums. That egg left on your plate doesn’t get delivered to the child scavenging for his next meal.

Traveling has it’s ups and downs—the highs of seeing a palace gleaning in the sun and thinking of a society that spent years devoted to its very existence. Entire generations poured into it’s creation. And for what? And at the same time, why not? The awe of seeing children playing in the river, the river that glistens at sunset, overlooking the farming fields. Their pristine laughter mixed with a river of disease. How many of those smiles won’t make it to their fifth birthday thanks to that malaria infested water? And then you smack that mosquito on your leg and realize it could have been you.

The first few days are always filled with wonder and amazement. Life couldn’t be more tangible and full of possibility. You can go anywhere, do anything, no one can find you. You’re a spec of dirt in a bustling city. It feels so freeing- there’s no one to let down. Anything will be okay.

Until you realize you don’t want to just be that spec of dirt—you want to be someone’s shining light. You want to have a home—not an actual house—but rather a sense of people you belong to—people that love you without expectations and for your essence.

So you land in the United States, feeling proud, excited, exhausted and utterly home. Stripped to your fundamentals, thankful to be alive, and spurred into action to make your time count. Ready to embrace the next adventure and at the same time love every moment you have. Damn that milkshake never tasted so good.

Anne Wales is Trinity '06 and a former columnist.