Confessions of a Reluctant Traveler

My husband and I just returned from a ten-day trip to California. From wine-tastings at vineyards owned by generations of the same family to lunch overlooking Pebble Beach Golf Course to the spectacular views only found on the Pacific Coast Highway, the trip was everything we hoped it would be, plus the weather was perfect.

 However, and I feel like I should share this with people sitting in a circle of folding chairs in some musty church basement, I am a travel phobic. I have friends who wander the world with carefree abandon, visiting exotic locales for weeks at a time and enjoying every minute. I, on the other hand, freely admit to being on the far extreme end of the adventure spectrum—as in, if there’s any significant risk involved, count me out, no matter how life-changing the experience may be. At times this lack of passion for travel seems like a kind of moral failing. When you’re in your 60’s and retired, it’s almost a societal expectation that you travel. I hear the judgment when someone says, “Oh, you should be traveling while you still can. Look what happened to so-and-so and now they can’t go anywhere anymore.”

To me, traveling can feel like going to the gym—I know I should go and it’s really not all that bad once I’m there and I’ll be a better/healthier person for it, but damn, I hate the process--whether that means pulling on my clingy gym clothes or making sure my cosmetics are all the right size to pass through security.

Don’t get me wrong. There’s nothing like being there in person, and once I’m immersed in a far-away place, I’m (mostly) fine. I love learning, and travel is a marvelous teacher. But the airport craziness and driving unfamiliar interstates and city streets while following Google maps or Waze on my phone is not something I enjoy. “Which way do I turn,” my husband asks. “Google hasn’t told me yet,” I reply, and suddenly we’re hurled into a traffic circle and which we way do we branch off the circle?? Argh…

And then there’s finding restrooms. The drive south from Napa to San Francisco winds through vineyards and rural areas with nary a fast food restaurant or gas station in sight. When we finally stopped at a Burger King, a line snaked nearly out the door because apparently someone had taken up residence in the men’s room. Employees knocked on the door several times to no avail, until finally, after what seemed like an eternity, a thirty-something hipster exited, man purse slung over his shoulder, looking freshly groomed (from a fast-food restroom?) and ready to make a presentation at the closest silicon valley start-up.

For those of us who thrive on structure and routine, traveling forces us into another dimension. I must be pried loose from the familiar and the comfortable in order to stretch and grow. But I can resist with the fierce stubbornness of a child who refuses to put her face in the water, no matter how enticing the sound of the other kids playing in the pool.

My husband, God bless him, deals with all my anxieties, finding the right cable car or the newly changed departure gate at the airport. He scans all the QR codes and asks strangers what we need to know, so I can watch the sea lions catching their dinner and learn why winemakers only harvest grapes in the evening.

But the old credit card ad is right—the real thing is priceless. Nothing generated by AI can replicate a woman cooking fried rice at your table in the middle of San Francisco’s bustling Chinatown. Or seeing the magnificent Pacific Ocean crashing against the rocks or the Golden Gate Bridge rising above the fog, even if it means a little (ok, a lot of) stress on my part.