Some people are devout travelers. My friend Harry combined his love of travel with his gift of gab in a career that started as a traveling salesman and turned into life as a Costa Rican citizen and businessman. Zach, a hippy kid, interrupted his education for a year of traveling in India on a shoestring, earned an MBA in London, and, after moving back and forth between London and the USA for decades, is back living in India. When the urge hits, Greta, a physical therapist I know, periodically leaves her job to wander for months at a time, sleeping wherever she can, including occasionally in jail. These people are serious travelers who know far more about the world than I do.
Like Harry, Zach, and Greta, my father also liked traveling, but he never made it a lifestyle. He did it during vacations. That meant driving to as many places as we could get to from New York City in two allotted weeks, using as much (or little) money as we had available that year. Dad was content packing sandwiches for lunch and sleeping in rustic, inexpensive “cabin courts” where we could cook our dinners and breakfasts. As a Hitler refugee and recent immigrant who had waited 10 years to finally buy a car, every place we went was new and unfamiliar to him, and he wanted to see as many as possible.
Since my parents were exceptionally poor communicators, travel strategies were never discussed, much less agreed to, in advance. We’d leave on our trips without a clear understanding of how they would unfold. As money inevitably started running short, arguments started. Dad wanted to stretch the vacation by economizing in those rustic housekeeping cabins. Mom said it was hot. She wanted to stay in air-conditioned hotels and eat in air-conditioned restaurants. I usually sided with Dad because I liked the road and wanted to make the trip as long as possible. If there was a dollar to spare, Dad and I would rather spend it on entrance fees at Fort Ticonderoga than on air conditioning. Usually, Mom would settle for the cabin court, in return for which we’d stop earlier (more restful), and Dad would handle kitchen chores.
For Dad, experiencing new places had always been the most important part of vacationing. But Mom only enjoyed traveling if there was some luxury involved. She cooked all year, she said, and it was no vacation to her if she had to keep doing it. For Mom, “vacation” had always meant resting. She liked traveling as long as she could rest comfortably while doing it. In their native Austria, Mediterranean cruises and occasional Italian vacations for attending operas, visiting museums, and dining in fine restaurants satisfied Dad’s middle-class wanderlust without unduly taxing Mom’s limited energy reserves. Then the Nazis showed up and ruined everything.
I admire Harry, Zach, and Greta, but I’m not like them. A month on the road is more than enough. I prefer traveling in comfort, and I’m certainly not going anywhere without having a secure home waiting for me. Like Dad, I have that middle-class, touristy kind of wanderlust. In my 30s and early 40s, I compromised on comfort, taking long bike-camping tours because that’s what I could afford, and I do like adventures to a point, but I haven’t slept on the ground since 1983.
Guided tours with first-class accommodation are how I see exotic places at age 85, but being on the road can still hold challenging surprises. In January, I visited Thailand. Half of our group caught a minor bug shortly after arriving, but everyone recovered quickly. Everyone except me, that is. My bug triggered my asthma, and I was still coughing painfully when we left for home ten days later. I started this column during the long, long night of the plane ride home because, as far as sleeping was concerned, I might as well have been on the ground.
Travel, it seems, is about different things for different people and about different things for the same person at different times of life. For Zach, it’s about learning as much as he can using all of the travel resources at his disposal. For Dad, it was learning what he could with the limited resources he was willing to commit. For Mom, it was about relaxing in new but comfortable places.
For me, travel has always been about education, and sometimes about adventure. At 40, I could handle the adventure of hauling 40 pounds of gear on my bike 70 miles a day, day after day, often in the rain. At age 70, a fully supported and guided bike tour was adventurous enough. At 85, it’s front cabin plane tickets, fine hotels, and door-to-door service, all planned and arranged by someone else, but I still love learning about the places and people I visit, no matter how superficial my growing physical limitations make those visits. If that doesn’t seem very adventurous, remember, there could well be an asthma attack lurking behind the next gourmet meal.
Mature Content is a monthly feature from Age-Friendly Carbondale.