As I write this, I’m sipping a pina colada, listening to George Ezra’s gorgeous crooning in the scorching heat of Puerto Rico’s sunshine. As much as I protest conventionality, it’s incredibly hard to deny that in this moment, life is very, very good.
These cliches of travel, the breathtaking sunrises, the exotic foods, the deluge of bright lights and loud music are why the best of us choose to travel. But that’s not why we need to. As rewarding as travel can be, it’s not easy. Especially when you’re twenty and broke, travel is a privilege, a hard earned, rather taxing one. The scramble to find a place to stay that doesn’t deplete your already dwindling bank account, the long hours spent on the grimy floor of a dingy airport, the embarrassing attempts at cooking to avoid spending money in fancy restaurants can take their toll rather quickly.
But that’s what makes travel so immensely gratifying. The less attractive parts of travel demand a certain self-awareness, a willingness to struggle that can only be learnt by powering through the grit, by embracing the uneasy. From the plane ride that encapsulates you in the sky for hours on end, forcing you to confront every horrific, morbid that has ever run through your overstimulated mind to the constant assertion of independence that roaming unfamiliar roads at ungodly hours brings, every step in the process is packed with experience, with a certain practical wisdom that can only be gained from the rush of travel.
Gazing into the magnificent Puerto Rican sunset, though, (yes, it took me that long to write three paragraphs) it’s hard to focus on the dirty realities of travel. However necessary these are, they are only secondary to the sense of renewal that being exposed to new worlds brings. Walking around San Juan’s quaint, cobblestoned paths, it’s hard to worry about the petty concerns of the hormonal 20-year-old mind. This sense of detachment from the realities of constructed life immerses you in the world in a way that is off limits within the realms of “real life.” Left to yourself in the most unfamiliar of environments, you become the most you, the version of yourself that hasn’t been shaped by constant socialization. In doing this, you begin to uncover emotions buried deep under layers of the petty every day, feel things otherwise confined to Wordsworthian odes.
Last week, I lost a friendship that I was, until then, entirely convinced was a permanent presence in my life. I hadn’t bargained for the abrupt, miserable end of something I valued so deeply and as embarrassed as I am to admit it, it ate away at my insides, making me feel both inadequate and incomplete. But here I am, wind rippling through my hair, living out an amalgamation of all the cliches that come with a sunset on the beach. Travel is life on steroids: the painful, the mundane, the irksome are all a part of the deal, experiences that serve to allow us a better appreciation of the beautiful, the joyous, the sublime. That’s why we need to do it, to remind ourselves that as frustrating, as confining as life can get, there is always something better, something more positive at the end of the tunnel.
