Stop Complaining about Traveling—It’s Fucking Magic

How I Found The Root of my Travel Nerves

I’ve done a lot of traveling. I wrote a book about it. Even still, every time I’m on my way to the airport I’m nervous. It’s a nebulous feeling that I can’t hold, that I don’t quite understand. Surely, this should be normal by now. It should be like folding laundry or putting gas in the truck. Simple jobs that need doing. Go to the airport, get on the airplane.

The anxious tug pulls at me in particular moments. In checking that I have my passport for the third time. In seeing a line of people in front of me. In thinking about how airplanes work. In thinking about the red light on my coffee pot. At this point, I’m pretty certain I’ll always have this feeling when flying through the air in a metal tube is on the docket for the day.

Today, rather stoned at the airport, I finally realized where the feeling comes from. Where the root lives in my subconscious. It’s born from a deep knowing that it’s all too good to be true. I actually just can’t believe that it’ll all work out. I can’t actually believe in airplanes themselves. In the process of international travel, that air traffic controllers are sitting in a tower saying “alpha” and “charlie” and stuff. That all the people in all the towers understand what each “charlie” means. Yeah right!