Traveling Emotions
More than a feeling...
Travel is not merely a shift in geography; it is a profound metamorphosis, a churning of emotions that rise and fall like waves under a starless sky. When I step out onto the open road—preferably at night, when the world is quieter and the unknown feels closer—I am electrified. There is a rush, an uncontainable elation that bubbles up from the core of my being. Dopamine floods my system, not unlike the thrill of a childhood adventure or the giddy anticipation of a long-awaited reunion. But travel is more than this fleeting chemical euphoria. It is a journey into the self, a mirror that reveals both the exhilaration of freedom and the quiet aches we carry.
On every trip, whether to a sunny coastline, a shadowy mountain range, or a bustling city dense with stories, the sensation is at once familiar and transcendent. We’ve all felt it—the joy of stepping away from the monotony of life, whether for a family vacation, an obligatory work trip, or a soul-searching solo endeavor. Yet for me, this joy is only the surface of a deep and turbulent sea. Beneath the thrill lies a storm of conflicting feelings, bound up in my choices, my sacrifices, and the lingering weight of responsibility.
Settling down—rooting myself—once felt like a sacred calling. Marriage, parenthood, a home with walls sturdy enough to hold the laughter and tears of a lifetime. I threw myself into it with gusto, savoring each moment like a fine meal. Yet, as the years unfurled, I began to sense the cost of my devotion. The elephant of responsibility, heavy but kind, took up residence on my chest. It was a burden I had willingly accepted, even cherished, but one that left little space for the wanderer inside me. That part of me, the restless spirit who longed for the open road and the untamed wilderness, was tucked away, boxed up, and abandoned in the attic of my mind.
In hindsight, I see the cracks in my resolve. Suppressing the urge to wander, to seek, was not an act of balance but of denial. That lizard-brain instinct to head "west," to chase sunsets and dreams, clawed at me relentlessly. Guilt bound me then, guilt for wanting to leave, for craving solitude, for being a selfish bastard who dared to dream of himself amidst the needs of others. Only with time and distance did I realize that this guilt was unnecessary, that I could nurture both my family and my need for the road. But back then, I could see only the path in front of me, and it was lined with obligations I had chosen, for better or worse.
From a young age, I had "itchy feet." The streets of Metairie and later San Jose were my first highways, explored on the seat of a bike until the streetlights flickered on and told me it was time to find my way home. The woods called to me, too—mystical, shadowy places that promised adventure and danger. Stray dogs snapping at my heels were the least of my worries. Sometimes the wilds of childhood weren’t kind; sometimes they reminded me, harshly, that innocence is not invincible.
As an adult, after leaving teaching, the call of the road grew louder, more insistent. It was not a general yearning for travel but a specific hunger: the need to drive. Planes and boats feel like prisons to me, but the wheel of a car in my hands, the hum of the engine underfoot—that is freedom. That is jazz, the syncopated beat of my soul. The road is my partner in this dance, unpredictable yet fluid, guiding me toward something I can never quite name.
Behind the wheel, I am both conductor and instrument. The rhythm of the tires on asphalt resonates in my chest, and the road ahead plays on my heartstrings. I cry easily in the car, unburdened by the judgment of others. Music becomes a balm, amplifying every note of joy and melancholy. Scents shift and blend—the tang of pine, the musk of earth after rain—and they strike chords I didn’t know existed. The journey isn’t all elation; sadness rides shotgun, too. I ache for those I leave behind, for the moments I cannot share. There is a loneliness in spotting a lone elk at midnight, its massive silhouette inches from my fender, and having no one there to gasp with me. Some joys are best shared; others, like solo travel, carve a bittersweet groove in the soul.
Travel transforms me. Alone on the road, I confront myself—raw, unfiltered, and vulnerable. The wilderness does not lie; it reflects every fear, every hope. Standing amidst ancient trees or beneath an endless sky, I am humbled, overwhelmed by emotions that threaten to drown me. Sometimes I must stop, breathe deeply, and let them crash over me like waves. My fingers tingle; my chest tightens; my legs twitch with a compulsion to move, to explore. Every moment feels charged with possibility, like a mystery waiting to unfold.
Even when the road is dreary—rain pouring, the horizon obscured, and solitude pressing against my chest—it is significant. In those moments, I meet myself, stripped of distraction. I have conversations with the person in the mirror, hard ones, healing ones. Self-reflection becomes inevitable, even transformative. The pain of growth, the untethering from familiarity, is a wound, but a gentle one. It bleeds not despair but revelation.
And then there is the writing. At home, the process is methodical, coaxing words from the depths of my mind like a reluctant animal. But on the road, writing is wild magic. My notebooks bear the marks of the journey—ink smudges, coffee stains, raindrops. My pen moves like a dervish, spinning out sentences with reckless abandon. The prose that spills onto the page is untamed, messy, alive. It may be illegible later, but in the moment, it is pure. It is a dance, and I am powerless to resist its rhythm.
Travel is not just joy; it is rapture. It is a crucible where I am broken and remade, each journey etching new lines into the map of who I am. When I return, I am never the same. The hobbit who left has grown, stretched by the world and by his own audacity to explore it. And so, I dance—on the road, in my writing, in my soul.
