I'm sitting in a condo I rented for a week-long personal retreat in Bend, Oregon. My partner is on her way to Mexico for a vacation with her friend, so I figured I'd take this week as an opportunity to get out of Portland for awhile and change my surroundings.
So far, I don't get it.
Bend is fine. I've heard great things about it. It's scenic. There's a bustling downtown full of fun things to do. There's a charm here that's not found anywhere else. Et cetera.
But I didn't sleep well last night. I spent an entire day packing, driving, unpacking, and grocery shopping. I left the home I'd made for myself in Portland—a carefully curated collection of systems for living—and decided it would be a good idea to leave all of that for a slightly different version of the same place.
I can see the allure of wanting to produce landmarks in your memories. Things you've done that you'll remember forever. That makes sense to me, and I'm sure I'll remember the time I spent a week in Bend more than I'll remember the relative monotony of the weeks before and after.
But I'm beginning to realize that I just don't enjoy travel like other people seem to. It's not only that I thrive in routine, even though I do. I think too it's that I thrive in the act of homesteading—in building systems for living that encourage economy and reliability. Travel is completely antithetical to that ethos. It's wasteful, inefficient, and exhausting.
Kudos to you if you enjoy traveling. I used to. I just need to make space for my changing needs and desires. Travel used to be something I loved. Now I'm not so sure.