The grass is only greener until your eyes get used to it

The huge stack of books by my bed is getting smaller: I just finished A Woman Alone: Travel Tales From Around The Globe. I recently completed my own stint of global travel, although certainly not alone. I read much of this book while on my trip to Kenya. The writing inspired me; the tales challenged me; but most of all, the irony of every essay struck me. In every single case, the woman narrator thinks of, longs for, seeks out companionship. It is not aloneness she desires, but newness. It is global Miniver Cheevy-ism: relationships at home grown stale or shattered completely, they assume that those made on the other side of the world must be richer, better, more meaningful. So they leave behind the familiar and set out with a plane ticket and a wish. And for a time, that wish may come true.

But none of these essays continue past the honeymoon stage, past the point where even suffering is enjoyed for “the experience.” The sad truth is that, should they continue on in their solo adventure spot of choice, they would smack hard into cruel reality: Nothing remains new forever, and even exotic locations and companions become the status quo. And then relationships grow stale or shatter completely, and that itch on the soles of your feet returns and you find yourself at midnight surfing the web for the cheapest ticket to the furthest city. Lather, rinse, repeat.

Seekers through and through, these women search for wholeness in their travels. They assume that it must be found in regions abroad, as they cannot seem to find it at home. They conclude that it must come from authentic experiences, from doing the undoable (or at least the uncomfortable). That roughing it in some way smoothes, that suffering heals, and that getting dirty cleans your spirit. They’re right, of course.

Except they’ve misapplied these truths to travel.