As I awoke one morning in a hillside bungalow on the tiny island of Ko Tao in the Gulf of Thailand, I found myself transformed into… nothing. The island was lush and the white sand beach gleamed. A foot-long gecko scurried across the wall of my room. But I was the same uncertain 20-something as before, still in search of direction and purpose.
At that time I made a habit of travelling to a different destination every New Year’s Eve. I spent one with a good friend, crashing on a couch in New Orleans and crawling across the city all night. The next year I was in New York with a bunch of friends, watching the countdown in a crusty punk-rock bar that was turned into a neighborhood restaurant more than 20 years ago.
Thailand was a much longer trip, a credit-card splurge a bit beyond my usual grad-student budget. I had thought that going halfway around the world to a place I’d only read about would reveal something to me. Could help me find purpose and connection. And it did, in a way.
It taught me how not to travel. I booked that whole trip with the goal of getting as far away from home as I could. I wanted another stamp in my passport, to be able to say I’d been there. But I’d given no thought to who I’d be with. I didn’t bring a friend, and I didn’t make any. Not because the locals were aloof—they used to tout Thailand as “the land of smiles” for good reason.
The fault was mine. I was caught up in my own head, too closed off to connect with the people in the places I was going. I couldn’t escape my yammering self-consciousness, and I wasn’t ready to open up. I’d traveled nearly 10,000 miles; but I might as well have stayed put. I remember this trip largely for how much I wanted to come home.
For traveling to be worth it—for me—it has to focus on connection. With old friends. With new friends. With someone or something outside myself. That’s been my guiding rule ever since.
