A friend asked me if I got any new ideas on life when I traveled, and I quickly responded with a “no”. I told him that my ideas are pretty much the same as when I was very young. These experiences just allow me to confirm, refine, and learn how and when to tailor them to a given situation, I told him. Truth is, I responded too quickly, and failed to mention one idea that is new.

Those (myself included) with the economic and political resources can travel relatively unencumbered to every corner of the earth, accumulating passport stamps, pictures, self-pats on the back, and stories to embellish over while lipping the latest trendy cocktails, but I still can’t help but wonder the following: Is travel for the bored, the boring? And more importantly, which am I?

In all seriousness, sometimes I do find myself boring, and often wonder, ‘What is fun? Is this fun?’. You know what I found out? What I consider fun? Talking/arguing with friends, walking, eating/drinking (not necessarily alcohol, because I hope the conversation can be the intoxicant), sleep, sex, shower/bath, not necessarily in that order. I’ll add music - dancing and playing - and movies - watching, not making - in there too, but only when one of the former cannot be achieved.

Slight digression. Back on track. Before I ventured outside of the USA, I really thought people who had traveled and lived abroad knew something I didn’t. I won’t say I admired or envied these people, because I don’t give up either so easily, but I was undeniably curious about what they knew. Turns out they did know something I didn’t - how boring they are. Like sex without love means nothing, travel is superfluous without ideas and experiences behind it. Good art has as strong idea as its foundation, and so does good travel. Be it alone or in a group, sandy beaches or snowy mountains, is not the point. If your life has been or already is boring, travel to an exotic land might not be enough to save you. Maybe it’s cheaper to get on second life or something?

I don’t want to sound ungrateful because I know my current life is one of privilege not afforded to the average citizen of the world. I will leave for another time, hopefully when we meet in person, the debate of who is to credit for this privilege. But odd as it may sound, I honestly don’t believe any of the experiences I am having abroad can shape me as much as those I had on that dead end street in Price Hill that I grew up on. They can match neither in breadth nor intensity. However, it should go without saying that they remain important, influential.

So while travel brings many interesting and wonderful experience, nothing can beat the time my brother blew me up with a cannister of gun powder that rocked the block and left residue on cars 200 yards away. Or the time I shot myself in the foot (literally) and had to think of a way to explain to my Mom that I needed to go to the hospital immediately. Or the time by Brother called and said, “Dad’s holding a gun to my head, put Mom on the phone”. And I was like, “Okay, hold on, I’m just about to beat Mario Brothers”. And after dying, I yelled downstairs to my Mom, “Dad’s got a gun to his head, pick up the line.”

Somehow, life these days seems much simpler. Admittedly, objectively speaking, the stakes are higher now, and the pressure greater, but…Maybe my ideas haven’t changed but my perspectives have. A new take on an old thing? Maybe my guns and butter upbringing gave me nerves of steel and a personality slippery enough to navigate the tightest of situations? Maybe it gave me a fundamental understanding of life’s necessities that dictate my minimalist modus? Maybe, as my friend said, I’m full of shit?

So why is traveled the new educated? Well, because it doesn’t matter. Like having a lot of money, or a lot of degrees, the stamps cannot validate your credibility with me!

Or, alternatively, since it’s not unusual for me to sprinkle conversations with Shania Twain lyrics, “That don’t impress me much”.