I walked naked through the airport. At least, that’s how it felt. Because my husband and I were headed for just a long weekend in Chicago, we decided to try traveling lightly. Our aging back muscles and baggage-check fees were motivation for the experiment. I ambivalently carted just one carry-on with a few outfits, a book, and a “non-smart” cell phone. My usual traveling companions, a laptop and camera, remained at home as did the majority of the magic potions I’d come to rely on to keep me moisturized and fluffy. This minimalist approach to flying gave me no sense of freedom. I merely felt exposed.
When we arrived at the gate, I felt jealous as I saw my fellow travelers typing away on notebooks and plugging their ears with electronic distraction. Normally, with downtime like this, I’d whip out my computer and record observations or ideas for a future essay. Refusing to have my creativity thwarted, I recalled ancient tools of documentation: pen and paper. I searched frantically through my purse and found the former, but didn’t think to bring the latter. Desperate, I went to the nearest food vendor, grabbed a handful of napkins, and started to write. I felt resourceful but was amazed by the amount of napkins it took to record and edit ideas. I was so conditioned to using my computer in this setting that when the flight attendant announced before takeoff that it was time for all electronic equipment to be shut off, I obediently put the napkins away in a special place in my purse, hoping I wouldn’t inadvertently blow my nose in my ideas later.
When we arrived in Chicago and settled into our room, I felt an urge to check my email but of course, I couldn’t. I wanted to research tourism information about the city, but had to rely on the lame literature available in our room. When we showered and dressed to go out and about, I was barely moisturized and only semi-fluffy. This experiment wasn’t going very well.
Once distracted by the anticipation of seeing the city and enjoying the company of family we’d come to visit, I lost my self-consciousness about my lack of sartorial splendor and was totally in the moment; until I saw the Chicago skyline. When I was forced to capture the view on my inadequate cell phone rather than my beautiful Canon Rebel, my twinge of regret for agreeing to this experiment resurfaced. But I pushed through it, returned to the moment, and continued to have fun.
As the weekend progressed, the companionship of family, the delicious food, and the beauty of the area outweighed my concern for my physical appearance. I’m finally old enough to accept the fact that good hygiene is about the best you can do when you’re on the road and that packing a baseball cap solves a lot of problems. My attachment to technology was less easily resolved. I felt badly about missing great shots of the city. My preoccupation with email diminished slightly and I switched from recording on napkins to hotel stationary, but the overall experience of the trip was less than it could have been.
When did this baby boomer fall in love with technology? When did it become an integral part of my life? Originally, it was strange and difficult to learn when I was in my forties. Now it’s difficult to do without. Reflecting on that weekend of deprivation helped me understand the attachment occurred when my computer and camera ceased to be toys and morphed into tools. Over the years, they have become my vehicles for self-expression, creativity, and communication. They’re not distractions; they’re enhancements. Sure, I can still enjoy life without them but I enjoy life more with them.
So how do I travel lightly in the future, now that I’ve had this enlightening experience? For my sixtieth birthday, I got a pocket-sized “point and shoot” digital camera for traveling. It’s not as versatile as my big camera but it’ll do fine. Being without my computer on trips remains a dilemma. My technology budget is shot for the time being so there’s no computer substitute in my immediate future. Guess I’ll have to continue to rough it with phone books, cheesy brochures, and pen and paper. And if, God forbid, I inadvertently forget paper again, there’s always napkins.
