by Emily Falshaw

Created on: February 05, 2009

It's not the destination, it's the journey.

I've never uttered this sentence nor have I given much thought to its validity. It certainly sounds good: thoughtful, philosophical, even deep. I suppose it's meant as a life-lesson to help us appreciate how we've gotten to where we are, instead of focusing on our circumstances. But as I repeat it to myself, I can't help but picture a man, leaning against a sleazy bar reciting these words to a smoky blonde, hoping to sound thoughtful, philosophical, even deep.

I can be a very literal person, and I'm not terribly patient. So the first time I read this sentence, I thought it sounded like a giant load of excrement (please pardon my language, by the way). If we apply this concept literally, to traveling, it is utterly false. Traveling is all about the destination. The journey is best case scenario uneventful, or more likely, an uncomfortable, tedious and exhausting ordeal.

My first proper trip, that I can remember anyway, was when I was four. My family went to Florida to visit my migratory grandparents. My parents were very brave, and decided to make the 4,400km round trip by car, with two small children. We broke the journey into three days; after the first 15 miles I was already wondering "Are we there yet?" I have to say, I don't remember much about the trip, but going to the beach every day was far more enjoyable than sitting in the back seat with my brother, eating yogurt covered raisins and praying he didn't get one of his customary bouts of carsickness.

The yearly exodus up to the cottage was equally agonizing. It took about five hours to get there, depending on the traffic, and the only entertainment provided was my grandma walking up to the drive-through to get us some donuts. Now that I'm old enough to make the journey on my own it's not any better. The only thing that makes the holiday weekend traffic worth it is being able to do nothing for at least three days straight and having a tan by the time I leave.

But traveling these days is more than a road trip every summer. These days we can hop on a flight to just about anywhere. Flying, now there's comfort. All you do is sit back for a few hours and let the pilot do all the work, right? Hardly. We need to break our necks to make sure we arrive at the airport the customary two to three hours early, only to wait a few more hours because the flight is delayed. Lately, we need to be an amateur stripper to make it through security. And by the time we actually get on the plane, we're packed in so tight we can barely move, and the person sitting in front of us inevitably feels the need to fully recline their seat.

I could go on. But I think I've made my point. I travel frequently, and honestly I wouldn't bother if it weren't for the attraction of the destination, whether that is familiar comforts or the prospect of adventures I've not yet had. In all my experience only once has the destination been worse than the journey. I went to Swansea, in South Wales, because I thought it had a pretty name. Considering my journey was horrible, having to get off the train half-way there and wait, in the pouring rain for a coach, says a lot about the destination. Mercifully, there is only one Swansea. So I urge you, please, use the phrase "It's not the destination, it's the journey" wisely. Especially all you men in sleazy bars out there: you don't want that smoky blonde to think you're full of excrement, too.

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