I rarely hear individuals complain about having taken a chance on travel. Maybe they would’ve preferred better weather on a trip, or more sunblock, or different companions, or more time in a destination, but if I’m being completely honest, I’ve yet to meet anyone who took a chance on travel and came back with regret about taking the trip itself.
So often I hear people vacillate on whether or not they should take the trip to begin with. As Americans especially we live in such a materialistic society—one that judges richness based on physical possessions. We are supposed to find the measure of our wealth in what we can show to others. It’s the American dream after all! Spouse, 2.5 kids, nice car, white picket fence, name brand clothing. It’s not a bad dream by any means.
It’s no wonder that when so many of us find ourselves with expendable income, around tax time perhaps, we are often torn between the difficult choice of experiences or things. You can’t really show someone what it feels like to climb into an ancient Egyptian Tomb after all—one that’s older than the nation you call home. You can try to describe your experience, but no one can know just by looking at you the immense impact the enigmatic hieroglyphs dancing along the walls had on you. You can try to explain what the thrill of riding in a hot air balloon across an Arabian Desert feels like in terms they can understand, but will they feel the air get hotter the higher up you get, or watch as the falcons fly beneath you, or smell the camels as they kick up the dust on the ground below? You can’t share the sensory experience of a freshly-baked French macaron cookie—the way the smell hits your taste buds before you’ve even taken a bite—how the outer crunchy shell gives way to an explosion of the soft flavors beneath. People can see you, but they can’t fully understand how you felt standing in the shadow of the mighty Cyclopian walls of Mycenae—so tall and heavy that even modern technology struggles to find answers to how they were created. How do you describe to someone the feeling of walking through the grassy field past the tomb of St. Nicholas amid the ruins of a town only recently identified—one that is still untouched and will likely be entirely different in five years time once it becomes “discovered.” They can read the diary of Anne Frank, but can they fully appreciate her youthful idealism if they haven’t seen the magazine clippings that still remain on the bedroom walls of the Annex, or picture the narrow slats of the ladder that creaked with each step as she and Peter climbed into the attic to be alone together?
Other people can’t look at your physical appearance and see these snapshots, that’s true. If you aren’t wearing your wealth around your wrist, it is possible that your life could be mistaken as “poor”, but that couldn’t be farther from the truth. These moments are yours. No change in style, no loss of job, or change in circumstance can take them from you. They are a part of what makes you who you are. Material possessions will come and go. House sizes will change, car makes and models will too, but nothing can take away the memories you’ve made in your travels.
How often do you look back and say, “Man, I’m really glad I bought that pair of shoes instead of watching the Northern Lights dance above the frozen landscape?” Chances are, the shoes made you happy in the moment, or even a little while after, but like everything material, they lose their luster or stop functioning, or get tossed to the back of your closet.
If you find yourself torn between taking the trip or buying the thing, you’re not alone. The temptation to join the material rat race is a strong one. But wealth is relative. Having a full life is something you can’t put a price tag on. Lewis Carroll once said, “In the end, we only regret the chances we didn’t take.” Don’t miss the opportunity to see the world. It’s more fantastic than any dream made or paid for in factories.