There’s One Thing I Hate About Traveling

The main train station in Kyoto, Japan

When I was a kid I remember days when my mom would go off to work or out to run errands or meet friends, and I just couldn’t – wouldn’t – let her go. I cried until watery snot flowed out of my nose and screamed so loudly neighbors would crane their necks and peer out of their windows, probably wondering if what they were witnessing was tantamount to child abuse. It got so bad sometimes that after my mom managed to finally break free of my clutches and run outside, cousins and titas actually had to chase me down the street and hold me down while I was thrashing about like some sort of lunatic.

God I was pathetic. 

It’s a good thing I grew up. Now I don’t chase after anyone, much less cry and scream and thrash about. Last I checked, polite society doesn’t look too kindly on grown men grabbing onto peoples’ ankles, bawling their eyes out while begging for them to stay. If people have to leave, I just let them go. 

Of course, I mean that in the most literal sense. This isn’t some overly dramatic entry about the kind of leaving associated with break-ups; when you have to say goodbye and sever a relationship for one reason or another. Instead it’s about the simplest kind of departure: when people you know have to catch a flight to go somewhere for a few days.

“Have fun! Enjoy your trip! Pasalubong!” is what I say.

It’s a bit different, though, when you’re the one who has to walk out the door. 

Rothenburg ob der Tauber, Germany

Like many people, I love to travel, and I’ve never had any problems packing a suitcase and jetting off to the next dot on the map. But what I’m having trouble with these days is leaving somebody behind who doesn’t want me to go. I dread those few minutes when I finally get myself dressed, zip my suitcase shut, and answer the call from the Uber driver who says he’s waiting outside my front door. That’s when I know that the inevitable has arrived: that I actually have to be physically away from someone who, in recent months, has become a constant presence in my life.

It’s not like there are tears and screams and snot (thank god), but there is an actual tightening in my stomach and gaping cavity in my chest when the time comes to say goodbye. The hugs are uncharacteristically tight, and for a split-second, I actually consider changing back into my pajamas, calling the Uber guy to cancel, and crawling back into bed. It’s like saying goodbye to a puppy and no matter how often it happens, it still breaks my heart every time. And I hate it.

I’ve become my own mother and not in the way that I expected.

On hindsight, I suppose that’s how you know that your feelings for this person are completely genuine. Traveling is its own reward, and I honestly feel that if people do more of it, the world would be all the better for it. But when you find a compelling reason to stay, even if you have to get up and leave anyway, I think that’s all the more remarkable. If nothing else, the thought that there’s at least one person eagerly waiting for you to come home is just one other thing I love about traveling.