My Constant Companion
Welcome to my random musings about the world, on a weekly-to-occasional basis.
Where we are: Yesterday we arrived in Sydney, Australia. I haven’t seen a kangaroo yet, but I’m definitely keeping my eyes peeled.
My Constant Companion
I have a confession: travel makes me anxious.
Yes, you read that correctly. I’m writing this from an airport lounge in Manila, and my stomach is in knots. Only small knots (and it’s possible the knots are because I just ate too much mediocre airport food in too big a hurry, because we didn’t get lunch until 5pm), but knots nonetheless. My heart is galloping in my chest, for no good reason.
It only happens on transition days, when we’re moving from one place to another. Sometimes it starts a day or two before we go, like it did this time. Sometimes it’s just the night before. I’m always fine as soon as I’m firmly buckled into my assigned seat, but the getting-to that point always stresses me out.
You’d think I’d be used to the whole process by now: figure out how to get to the airport, wait in the ridiculous check-in line, wait in an even longer immigration line, snap at my spouse because he always picks the slowest line, juggle all my stuff at security, figure out where the gate is, freak out if there’s not a Starbucks, buy a too-expensive water because I know I’ll be thirsty, make Lee wait while I go to the bathroom one more time just in case .
It’s not because I’m afraid we’re going to be late. I learned how to manage that particular anxiety years ago, by overcoming my genetic tendency toward perpetual tardiness. We give ourselves a huge buffer on travel days, and I no longer whine about it or cut it too close. I’m usually even early, in my attempts to quell the anxiety. Doesn’t work, though. So it’s not (entirely) the time pressure.
It’s not the flying—it happens when we travel by train or bus, as well.
My current theory is that it’s the untetheredness of movement. As I sit in this airport, my suitcase and backpack are next to me. I’m like a turtle, trundling around the world with all my possessions on my back. In theory that’s fun and liberating and full of possibility, and when I have the key to a hotel room in hand, that’s all true. But when I have nothing but a boarding pass, and nowhere to bail out to, I feel … too free. There’s no safety net, and if the destination is a place we’ve never been before, there’s not even the promise of familiarity.
Interestingly (to me, at least), the more modes of transport in a day, the more anxious I get. Today involved a van, a boat, another van, an airport bus, a plane, another airport bus, the flight we’re waiting for (which is the long one), and then the transit system to our hotel at the other end. On days like this, I begin to feel as if my life is just movement, with no still center.
Things that seemed like a good idea when we were reading about the journey from point A to point B now seem very far away—two vans, a boat, two planes, and a train ride away.
I try to reframe it, reminding myself that any imagined glitches are not actually glitches, because there’s nowhere I have to be. I try to practice mindfulness. I breathe deeply. I read. I write. I do the NYT Spelling Bee. Mostly, though, I just remind myself, over and over, that eventually we’ll get where we’re going—or somewhere else—and I’ll be able to go into a room and close the door and shut out the world.
When we left the US to travel, I thought perhaps I was leaving behind the things that made me anxious, like cranky neighbors and rush hour traffic and parents’ night at the high school. I realize now that my anxiety is just another item in the small pile of possessions that I drag around the world.
Take care,
Lisa
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