Dear Twentysomethings:
I’m going to break from my usual political screeds, and write about something that’s not (overtly, anyway) about Trump, the election, or government. Instead, I’m writing this diary to anyone under thirty.
One of the things I’ve noticed lately is how reluctant you are — I mean, you, if you’re under thirty and you’re reading this — not just reluctant, but downright afraid to travel you are. I can only speculate as to what it is about the world that you grew up in that makes you this way. Is it that you grew up post 9/11? In some ways, 9/11 was a double whammy — on the one hand, it made people afraid of the world, and on the other hand by giving us longer lines, and taking away our ability to see our loved ones to the gate (how I miss that….) took so much of the romance out of travel. Or is it that you just took it for granted that you could travel any time you wanted? I’m 42 — did I just happen to grow up in a unique time when travel was more normal? Was I just lucky that way? Maybe it’s the internet, or social networking, that makes you feel like a “global citizen” without leaving your bubble.
Whatever the reason — and I’m willing to accept them as reasons, not “lame excuses” — please, please, PLEASE, travel. I can’t stress that enough. Is it expensive? Probably. But then so are data plans, and flat screen televisions, and X-boxes, and even sushi and beer (it adds up). And when I say travel, I don’t just mean tourist destinations like Cancun, or Montreal (although those are good starts, and they’re better than nothing). I mean, the kind of travel that really nurtures your soul. Painful travel. If you don’t have pangs of homesickness mixed in with your sense of awe and wonder, you haven’t gone far enough. That kind of travel. Go somewhere, and be surprised that you’re there. Hike in the Himalayas. Go to New Zealand and pretend your a hobbit. Spend a month in China.
There are times I wonder if we’d be where we are right now if more of you had traveled more. I guess I’ll never know.
But it can’t hurt.
Love,
Cooch