I am in a daydream: the sun shines even amidst the gray clouds hanging in the sky—I go out to ride my bike even if I am going to get wet. Slogging rain off me, I sit at a table drinking tea. Finding a version of myself that moves.
But then a new picture emerges. Me lying on the couch for hours on end, watching Judge Judy while scrolling Facebook. I stop to eat and sleep. I forget to shower. The sun has completed its rotation. It’s now night. The only thing that forced me from the couch was the dog needing a walk. Even then, I walked out in clothes I slept in, my hair falling out of my ponytail.
I push the new image away and hit submit on the Peace Corps application I had just finished. The deadline was still months away but submitting felt like movement. Movement that kept me from laying on the couch with dishes piling up in the sink.
The itinerary is always full: city and food tours, day trips to monuments, trains and boats. On the go. The alarm clock buzzes softly at first, gradually gaining volume. It’s still dark when I look through the curtains. I want to jump back in bed, but I have somewhere to be. I stand still, move to the chair, check my calendar. Sigh. My eyes feel heavy, but I shower, have breakfast, and am ready to go by 8 am.
Each time, the place changes. But the white duvets on the bed, the small bars of soap, and the pre-booked activities don’t. If I don’t get up, I won’t have time for the breakfast I paid for or I’ll keep the group waiting. In SaPa, my phone pinged. Lam wanted to make sure I was up. I replied that I was. I didn’t tell him that I hadn’t showered yet. But there was a time in Bali where the urge to climb back into bed won.
I want to immerse myself in local traditions. Avoid traditional tours. Move slow. Like the time I was in Cambodia. I sat at a small table in the courtyard, surrounded only by flowers and soft music. I left my phone in the room, determined to sit in the stillness with my coffee. I lasted twenty minutes.
I want to travel like this. But I can’t. I need a reason to go.
Without one, I stop.
I was in Vietnam to celebrate the Lunar New Year. With rooms overlooking Hoan Kiem Lake and a rooftop lounge, my hotel was the perfect spot to watch the fireworks. After breakfast, I made a reservation and paid my $25. I went back to my room, telling myself, just shower, go out. It’s okay to go out and explore on your own. But later that afternoon, I hadn’t done any of it. I was still in bed.
I first noticed the shadows hitting the wall differently. The room had turned dark. I got up to turn on more lights and picked up the room service menu. The music and laughter from outside rose up to my balcony, a reminder that I’d left the door open earlier. I latched the door and climbed back into bed, the room service menu forgotten, and snuggled under the down comforter. I closed my eyes. In the end, not even the $25 I paid could force me to get out of bed.
Years before, I arrived home from my first abroad experience. Before leaving, my mother’s grocery list: chicken tenders, cereal, milk, and tv dinners. Gone for three weeks. There were a bowl, spoon, and mug in the dish drainer. Frozen meal prep still sat in the freezer. Her suitcase was packed, but walking in the door, I saw her sitting in the same chair as when the Uber had picked me up.
In Barcelona, I pretended the hot air outside and the air conditioning inside was the reason I was lying in bed. I said to myself that I was tired from jet lag. But I knew the truth. I didn’t have any reason to leave the room. People would still crowd the courtyards and markets later. Dinner could wait.
Without movement, the alarm clock wouldn’t ring in my ears in the mornings. There would be no reasons to shower. Meetings stop, stepping outside becomes voluntary rather than necessary.
The fear isn’t that I’ll stop traveling. The fear is that wherever I go, I’ll eventually find the same chair. The same pause. The same quiet gravity pulling me down.