It looks like yet another blogger is questioning what the whole point of travel is. Last month it was Jacob, this month, Penelope Trunk. Actually, she's not so much questioning it as much as arguing that it's a total waste of time.
She gives people like me far too much credit though, citing three of the reasons people like to travel: learning new things, learning about different cultures, and getting away to think more deeply. Lofty goals, I would say, but not mine. Mine are of the more shallow nature: to go somewhere with better weather when it's cold where I live, to drink big martinis in a jazz club while overlooking the Manhattan skyline, and to get to wear cute dresses. Clearly, deep thinking and learning about new things are not what gets me out of town.
But I must admit, one of her arguments got me thinking. She contends that people that love their lives don't leave town. Hmmmm, I do love my life, so why am I so eager to get out of town? I've been thinking about this one all week.
For me, what it boils down to is a chance to kidnap my husband and make him spend a whole bunch of time with me. Yep. At home, he has other priorities, like fixing something, mowing something, or watching something on TV. Or riding his bike with this friend or that friend or that friend. Of course we have to have our own lives, and of course all that is healthy, but still, I love stealing him away from all of that and making him go see this park, that museum, or that movie, on a scorching day in Manhattan.
I'm pretty sure I like spending all that time with him a little more than he likes spending it with me, but for one month each year in New York (and as many other trips as I can fashion), he goes along for the ride. And willingly. And there's just no way I could get that at home.
Waste of time? I think not.
(Happy anniversary honey. Thanks for a very fun 25 years, and especially the last 17, that have made up this adventure called marriage.)