I have traveled alone more in the past few months than I have done in a long time. While the pandemic raged, I also grew older and a less happy traveler. Looking back I am not sure when if ever I was excited for travel. It was theoretical wanderlust with me being reluctant to enjoy the process as much as good traveler must.
When I was a child, my mother would pore over the maps of the different Indian states and propose adventures by train that took us through towns known and unknown, some having historical significance others blessed with nature's bounty. She saw what was possible in a magical dreamscape where the reality of booking tickets at the railway station, packing for the trip, finding places to stay along the way and understanding what modes of transportation to use - simply did not exist.
She made it sound easy and possible. We never made any of these imagined trips - my father was a realist though back then I simply did not see it that way. I only saw the field of dead and abandoned dreams of travel. That must have set the tone for me even before I realized it. That travel is inherently difficult and prone to delivering unpleasant surprises and mostly impossible. The magic got stripped to the bone. When we traveled together for the first time I thought these ghosts from aborted trips past would come to haunt. They gladly did not. I was not the best planner but a few trips later I got into the swing of things. Mistakes were made but none so bad that the trip was ruined.
Traveling alone brings back memories I wish would not come back.
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