My First Real Vacation & Contemplating The Purpose of Travel

iPhone photo taken while landing in Oaxaca City

What is the purpose of travelling?

To experience other cultures?

To “escape”?

To “find yourself”?

To appreciate what you have at home?

To become or appear interesting and get cool instagram photos?

I don’t know.

I just got back from a trip to Oaxaca and Puerto Escondido, Mexico with five friends for ten days of eating, drinking, dancing, gawking, and laughing at each other’s stupid jokes that no one else would find funny. Most nights ended with us just playing pool in our underwear and drinking Modelos. It was so much fun.

our airbnb view from the pool table in Oaxaca City.

I’m 31 years old and this was my first real vacation ever as an adult. I’ve done plenty of travel over the last 8 or so years, but it was all either for work, or the odd two day add-on to a work trip. This was the first time I’d ever booked an extended trip with friends, just to go have fun.

There are a number of reasons it took this long:

- I had no money.

- I had very little time because I was focused on building threesixfive.

- I was scared to miss opportunities and obligations that might come up within the business.

- I’d done pretty much all my travelling alone and didn’t really want to book another solo trip.

But I think there was one more reason that I’d never fully articulated. It came to me through a string of events, the first of which was getting knocked-the-fuck-out by food poisoning (or a flu or something) for the second half of our trip and spending 3 days puking, diarrhea-ing, body/head-aching, and going to some weird places in my mind.

I realized that the reason I didn’t make time for travel over the past 8-10 years is because I was totally fixated on trying to build a life at home that I truly loved.

When I got sick and was feeling sorry for myself, I started to question why I was there at all (which felt weird because I’d had so much fun to that point and I love these guys), and when I got home and felt groggy, exhausted—and honestly just like total bag of shit—I was asking myself, “should I have even gone on a trip?”

I was comparing my post-trip energy (foggy-headed, lethargic, grumpy) to where I was at pre-trip, and missing the sense of momentum I’d cultivated before I left, where I was absolutely dialled in on my work, reading, and writing, and everything in my life seemed to be moving in the right direction. I felt frustrated knowing it would take time to get back into that kind of groove.

But then there was a shift. I got up and made sure to make my bed, shave, and take a cold shower, and I walked for a coffee at one of my favourite neighbourhood joints in Toronto. Sitting at the window ledge with my cortado, having a half conversation with the friendly couple waiting behind me, a thought washed over me.

I fucking love the life I have. The life I’ve created for myself. (I teared up a bit at writing that)

I love my weird little split-living situation between Toronto and Halifax, even though it’s exhausting and confusing.

I love the café I just mentioned and the fact that they serve the exact coffee flavour profile I like. Hazelnut, chocolate, peanut butter.

I feel confident and comfortable my baggy black jeans I was wearing from my last trip to Montréal, my winter jacket with perfect pockets that my mom got for me a few christmases ago, and the white nike air max evo’s I’ve been wearing for 4 years that are somehow still wearable.

These days, I love most of what’s in my wardrobe. So many pieces that have been collected thoughtfully over the past few years, that fit exactly how I want them to fit and say exactly what I want them to say.

I’ve actually grown to love my shitty $100 single speed bike In Toronto with a rusted chain and handle bars so stiff that I can ride around no-hands infinitely.

I feel comforted by the cute independent grocer down the street where the lady gave me a fortune cookie with my receipt (how adorable is that?)

I draw warmth from the trinkets littered around my house, the 13 half-read books marked with plane tickets and film photos, and my coffee mug collection (I’m laughing at how hard I think each morning about which mug I will use).

I love that I’ve realized how important writing is to me, even if I often struggle to do it, and I love that I’m feeling so much closer to understanding my purpose in this life.

I love my favourite two pens that I’ve been carrying around for weeks now.

I love my friends I went to Mexico with. I love that our trip group chat is still buzzing with the ripples of those stupid jokes no one else would find funny. They’re so funny, you’ll just have to trust me.

When I was laying in bed sick I wondered, how do people who get sick, like really sick, keep going? Where do they find the strength? I’m such a goddamn baby when I get sick. I had a little flu or food poisoning (or whatever it was) for 3 days and it felt like the end of all things. I’m thinking of some of the folks I know who’ve endured and overcome serious illness in their lives. These people are fucking heroes.

Some really confusing thoughts came up for me while aching and sweating in bed. Thoughts about privilege and purpose and health among other values and existential considerations.

In the past, I think I would have given these thoughts a lot more weight and would have spiralled a lot harder, but for the most part I was able to just observe the thoughts rather than judge them too harshly.

Is it a bit annoying that I spent 3/10 days of my trip sick in bed? Of course.

But the overwhelming feeling I’m left with is an acute appreciation for the preciousness of this life I’ve been given, and how lucky I am to love my life and my friends so much.

What is the purpose of travelling?

I still don’t know, but these feelings seem to have been the purpose of this trip for me.