My work with the publishing house has entailed some travel, both domestic and overseas. And I’m not complaining. I’ve welcomed every business trip with open arms and a hastily packed suitcase. (No matter how much lead-time I get, I always pack at the last possible minute.)
I suspect I am a natural wanderer who derives an unusual enjoyment from being in transit. Truth be told, I usually enjoy journeying more than actually arriving; while many travelers get impatient and moan, “Are we there yet?” I feel a tinge of anxiety when the bus begins to slow down or the plane starts its descent. “Another half hour of travel, please?”
But I’m sensing a shift in my relationship with traveling of late. Nothing tectonic, but still a change. Let me explain.
The past few months have found me on board a plane more than usual. Except for missing Daphne, having to cycle clothes and other travel paraphernalia, and getting disoriented the first minute of waking up in a hotel room, I think I’m coping quite well. But that’s the problem—I’m just coping, where I used to have fun.
Traveling, I’m afraid, is slowly becoming a chore more than an adventure.
Case in point: Before, I used to always want the window seat so that, atop clouds, I could watch the sunrise/sunset, marvel at the labyrinth of streets and rivers below, and trace the crinkling of terrain. Now, I find myself requesting for an aisle seat more often, preferably by the exit row so I could get more leg room for my arthritic, long legs. And as soon as I locate my seat and stow my luggage, I promptly doze off, sometimes missing the safety demo altogether.
I don’t think I will ever detest traveling, but I do think I need to intentionally fan the flames of wonder. I’ll start by asking for a window seat on my next flight come Holy Week. I fly to Davao very early in the morning; I hope I get a fantastic view of the sunrise.