The Gift of Travel

I love to fly. There, I said it.

I love everything about it, the airport, going through security, takeoff, great conversations with not-strangers-any-longer (or solitude; I am content in either case), landing, the thunk! of the customs inspector's stamp in my passport (do you think they realize I'm both a bit nervous and excited?), a new-to-me rental car, opening the hotel room door, waking up and realizing that I am somewhere new, some place that's different.

My mother used to say I was part Gypsy, she may have been on to something.

As I write, I am on a flight to one of my favorite places, the Florida Gulf Coast, a place where many important things happened to the teen-aged Canadian I was many years ago now. Given that I keep coming back, the gravitational pull of this place seems permanent.

I remember a train trip with my mother as a three year-old, chugging our way from St. Catharines, Ontario, to Winnipeg, Manitoba. For years thereafter, it was my highest ambition to be a train engineer.

As a four year-old, on a six week-long trip with my parents and three older brothers, after having driven west from southern Ontario to coastal British Columbia, and then south to southern California, I am told I cried when I was told that we were heading home (even though going home meant beginning a 2,500 mile drive diagonally across the North American continent).

I remember a bus trip from Buffalo to Los Angeles in my mid 20s when somewhere near Grand Junction, Colorado, at around 2 a.m., the most angelic voice sang softly from the back of the bus.

I remember my grandmother whose recent departure from the Soviet Union to her new home in Germany in the mid 1970s enabled her to visit grandchildren in Canada for the first time. After picking up Oma at the airport in Toronto, my mother commented that she must surely be very tired. My Oma's response was telling. "From what?" she asked. "All I've been doing is sitting!"

I loved hearing the TSA employee at Hartsfield-Jackson Airport keeping the line moving, belting out a light-hearted encouragement, "Smile, everybody! You're the ones going someplace today!"

I have wondered about those who complain on flights. Not every flight is going to be a first class experience, but I wonder how grateful we would all be if a trip across the continent was only available via stage coach, or on horseback? An airline seat in a cramped cabin would likely look like a luxury by comparison.

I would contend that travel is a gift, a rare privilege. Sure, sometimes we travel to be with family and friends in the aftermath of tragedy. Not all travel is going to be pleasurable, but it is a gift nonetheless.

At some point soon after returning home, the not-so-fleeting thought making its way through my mind is a simple one: "When is my next trip?"