“It’s not the Destination, It’s the journey” —R.W. Emerson (from “Self-Reliance”)
Ah, okay.
Emerson’s pithy comment has been so over-used that it has sadly become clichéd and sounds like something from a life-style coach. Even so, I find an inherent truth in what he is saying.
It’s true: Traveling can be its own reward.
Ah, the thrill of the open road; the tingling of anticipation to find out what’s beyond that next bend in the road; the hypnotic draw of new adventures (as opposed to lying around the house all day); and the real possibility for experiences beyond the ordinary, hum-drum, monotonous existence of our routine, every-day life. But caution is the catch-word, lest one become “prisoner/Of the fine white lines/Of the white lines on the free, free way” (Joni Mitchell, “Coyote”).
Yet, the journey can also be a sobering experience.
Once on the road, reality sets in, tempering romantic notions of traveling with real challenges that quickly test our capacity for patience, self-control, compromise, and, of course, love. The range of feelings are as varied as the highways in Mexico.
So to the ennumerable Mexico travel blogs that already blanket the world wide webb (it’s as if we retirees had nothing better to do than run off to Mexico—during the winter, of course—and then record every little detail of their journey), I add my 2 cents worth or pesos or centavos
Call and Response 