About that time I almost stayed home
I almost didn’t go to Porto.
Just as I almost didn’t go to Bologna. But let’s stay focused.
I almost didn’t go to Porto. I sat in my room, my bags half-packed, attempting to come up with an excuse that would be both tragic and believable enough to be understandable to others, let alone myself.
I don’t like admitting this to myself, but travel frightens me. Being out of my comfort zone frightens me. Like, a lot. I spent the first (give or take) eight years of my life moving and changing schools every year, have lived in three different countries, and have traveled by myself enough times to know that I will be fine each and every single time that I do it. And I still get scared. I get almost angry with myself. Whoever told me I wanted to Do Things? That I wanted to See Things? Why do I do this to myself? I am so comfortable here, at home, in my bed, who the hell told me to book that flight to -insert city name here-?
Each and every time.
And each and every time, I make myself go. And each and every time, no matter what, I love it.
So, I almost didn’t go to Porto. But I made myself go. And I arrived to find it foggy and humid. But I left my suitcase at the hotel and I made myself wander through unfamiliar streets, looking for buildings and places that I only knew through pictures. And little by little, the unfamiliar became familiar. Hesitant discomfort turned to hungry curiosity. And my fear turned into joy, which turned, very quickly and much more easily than I’d expected, to love.