Destinations Aside

“I travel not to go anywhere, but to go. I travel for travel’s sake. The great affair is to move.”
-Robert Louis Stevenson

I was on a train today for the first time in my life. Ever. I mean a real train, not the fake touristy ones painted in bright primary colors crowded with families. Or the suburban trains that carry suits absorbed in their newspapers who are too busy to look out the window or make eye contact. No, this train was about more than just travelling from point A to point B. It was a glorious experience all by itself, destinations aside. I loved everything about it from the hushed rumble of the tracks, to the rolling, dipping countryside beyond my window, to the scratchy blue fabric of my extra-wide chair.

And it made me realize that I am enamored with traveling. Not the hotels or the food or the attractions. Nope, I like to move. And it honestly doesn’t matter to me the conveyance, though I can admit I have preferences. Driving a car is one of my few unalloyed pleasures in the world. There is nothing like it in the world, racing over smooth asphalt while the wind combs your hair. I’ll confess, I am not overly fond of planes, but there is always a moment or two when you look out the windows and... oh. The clouds, the blue, the light. It’s a sight unlike any other. Any time I’m in a new place I need to get out the door and start walking. And just walk and walk and walk. Not only am I moving, but I feel as if I’m absorbing the ground, the sounds, the people, the smells, the place itself with every footstep. But, oh, none of this matches the spectacular movement of a train.

Lately I’ve been reading some travelogues written in the beginning of the 19th century by British explorers in the interior of Brazil. The horrors that they describe in travelling are incomprehensible to the modern mind: the storms, that rats, the bugs, the lack of edible food. But along they continue on their merry, English way, undaunted and unfazed. What motive was strong enough, what desire pervasive enough to not only confront but persevere through those obstacles? It was not merely a destination that these men were looking for, they were swayed by some reason, some compulsion to constantly be on the move. They were not looking to arrive, they were simply experiencing. I feel an answering compulsion in myself.

It is rare that we ask ourselves why we want to travel. Most of us do for one reason or another, mostly because it is an expected social function: graduate, have kids, travel on summer vacations, retire. But I think the compulsion to travel can go much deeper and is much more individualistic then we suppose.

I realized that I travel simply to move. To go. My compulsion is to see as much as I can before I die and then I will be a happy person. I didn’t say it was rational or healthy, simply that it is.

Today on the train, we climbed over one particular hill and suddenly broke atop the tree line. Below me was a valley, shrouded in shadows and the golden light of dusk. Trees dotted the undulating hills, a study in randomness. Sheep grazed peacefully, their white fluff accenting the landscape. In the distance mountains rose, vaguely threatening and grey. As quickly as it appeared, it’s gone. I will never see that scene again. Even if I were to return there, to that exact spot, never could I arrange the sun or the sheep so exquisitely. I had it for one perfect moment and then I moved on.