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This story was originally published in RNZ.co.nz and republished with permission.
OPINION: I was supposed to be in the Caribbean next week. Grand Cayman, to be exact, an island 700 km off the coast of Miami that looks like a screensaver come to life.
The plan was to spend four days swimming, listening to reggae, and eating my body weight in spicy seafood from Herman’s Fish Fry on the southern tip of the island. And writing about it for a magazine in flight.
But then Covid-19 happened, well and truly cutting the wings of this travel writer.
Sharon Stephenson / supplied
Sharon Stephenson: “I have been fortunate to have many moments of pinching (like) horseback riding through the wild Patagonian plains.”
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Should you feel sorry for me because I’m not open-legged on a perfect Caribbean beach? Hell no. Horror has brought all kinds of unimaginable horror to all kinds of decent people: lost businesses, the death of loved ones, and debt falling from our eyes. The loss of some paid-for trips is not even in the top 100 of junk things that have happened this year.
Except that’s not all I’ve lost: As countries closed their doors and flights were grounded, like so many others in the global travel industry, my career was shattered. Thanks to the pandemic, we all play a game whose rules we don’t write. And many of us are losing.
I didn’t set out to be a travel writer; About 15 years ago, I was simply a journalist in the right place at the right time. Since then, I’ve been fortunate to have many pinching moments: horseback riding through the wild Patagonian plains, cocktails in Cairo, expensive dinners in Bora Bora between newlywed couples with fat wallets and a questionable dress sense .
Sometimes when an airline was friendly and had to turn left at the entrance to the plane, I wondered how the hell a poor boy in Lower Hutt was so lucky. And when the music would stop.
We all just found the answer to that.
Sharon Stephenson / supplied
Sharon Stephenson has been fortunate to travel the world to places like Niagara Falls.
Perhaps visiting some beautiful place and writing about them will return one day, more or less. I would prefer it to be more, because what I discovered since I was locked up is how much travel is part of my identity.
In March, when one after another of my media trips for this year fell like a cruel game of dominoes, I lost not only a good part of my livelihood, but also the delicious opportunities the trip offers: the leap into the wild. unknown, the opportunity to leave my beliefs at home and see things from a different perspective.
For me, traveling is like throwing myself off a cliff and waiting for wings to grow along the way. If there is another way to experience that slightly nervous / excited butterfly feeling I get when I get off a plane in a country where I don’t know a soul and don’t speak the language, I wish someone would tell me.
guardian Columnist Lucy Mangan once described traveling abroad as “the healing ointment that makes daily routine bearable.” Humans are by nature a migratory species, even if these migrations last only a few weeks and run on jet fuel and a credit card.
I would like to think that my love for travel is even more deeply rooted: my grandparents sailed across the oceans to give their children a better life, and my parents too. I have traced part of my ancestry back to the Spanish gypsies and, like them, I prefer not to be in one place for long.
I once shared a musty London apartment with a woman who chose vacation destinations by pointing at a spinning globe, her raison d’etre being that there was so much to see, how could one consciously choose which parts to visit? He had some amazing adventures, a boring vacation, and once a memorable shave with a hungry Alaskan polar bear.
I have never played enough to follow his example, but I understand his motivation to go out and see the good, the bad, and the indifferent world; to chat with people you would never meet at home; feel empathy and amazement; eating live octopus tentacles in Seoul and drinking snake blood in Vietnam (which I have done and will never repeat, although it pleased both my hosts and the locals I tried).
When you travel, especially alone, it’s up to you to make it work, figure out how many subway stops are your destination, how much to tip, and whether to trust the shy guy with the bad combover who sat at your table.
It’s as cheesy as a fondue, but traveling teaches you not only about other people and places, but also about yourself.
A friend who doesn’t know why someone would want to sleep somewhere else, but her own bed can’t understand her love of travel.
“Just because we’re the first generation that can escape the sun and change seasons in one day doesn’t necessarily mean we should,” he says.
She probably has a point. But I don’t know who I am if I’m not a traveler.
Hopefully, when the travel bans are lifted and life returns to normal, I will be able to find my way back to myself.
* Sharon Stephenson has been rearranging words on a page for longer than she can remember. He has written for many New Zealand publications, including Stuff, North & South, Kia Ora, and NZ House & Garden.
This story was originally published in RNZ.co.nz and republished with permission.
