Rather than restlessly relocating in search of a new lifestyle, Anita Isalska makes a case for taking the most enlightened parts of other lifestyles back home with us.
As I wander through the botanic gardens in Brisbane, sunlight dapples the ground. Even in the shade of the fig trees, it’s deliciously warm. I’m mere steps from the Central Business District, but the sound of birdlife makes me feel like I’m deep in a tropical paradise.
That’s when the thought flits into my mind: could I live in this city?
Maybe you’ve experienced the same jolt of longing on your own travels. It starts innocently enough, when you sigh to your travel companion: ‘Should we just move here?’ Next, you’re glancing in estate agent windows and calculating comparisons to the rent you pay back home.
By the time you’ve made a shortlist of your favourite neighbourhoods, you’re convinced – life would be easier, happier and much more fulfilling if you only lived here. And there it is: the travel trap – those familiar rose-tinted glasses that often emerge when you’re exploring a new place.
After moving overseas multiple times from the UK to France, Australia and the United States, I’ve learned that when you hear the siren call to break free, you need to answer it – but not necessarily always by hitting the road. Because that craving for change you’re hearing? It’s actually telling you something much deeper – about the life you’re not living at home.
Dreaming of a better you
Maybe your life genuinely would be better overseas. Economic and political factors might make life at home hard to tolerate, or even dangerous, for some people. Or it might be challenging to be yourself close to home, especially if you come from a tight-knit family or a community with rigid expectations.
But many of us daydreaming of a clean slate are on the privileged end of the spectrum. In my case, I’m not fleeing danger, just discomfort – and it’s all too easy to wildly romanticise the possibilities.
Beyond the enticements of a new place’s culture, cuisine and climate, what’s most seductive about moving away is the idea of the new me – complete with a baguette in hand or a surfboard under my arm. In my adopted home, I tell myself, everyday worries would recede like a wave at low tide. My daily routine would involve jogging on the beach in Cape Town or feasting on Singapore‘s street food. The happier, more grounded (and possibly hotter) version of myself, would eternally bathe in the glow of my fabulous new life.
Read more: How to salute the outdoors in Australia
Neverending itchy feet
But this is not reality. As a Brit who has lived in San Francisco, Melbourne and now the French Alps, I’m no stranger to making big moves. However, I’ve also experienced what it realistically takes to build a new life: boundless energy and resilience. There are the cultural differences, of course, and the loneliness of starting from scratch. There are also seemingly endless rounds of paperwork, with stressful waiting games in between.
Many of us legal aliens quickly learn that migrating isn’t always trading up, it’s simply trading in for a different set of challenges. Once the sheen of your new home country fades into familiarity, you’ll be right there with the locals – complaining about the traffic, the air quality or, ironically, the tourists. Studies lay bare the reality of expats who end up regretting their moves, who return home because of homesickness or social isolation and struggle with practical factors like securing a job or the cost of living.
Moving abroad can be life-changing, sure. But it can also be a slog. Despite knowing this, I still managed to stumble into the travel trap on my recent trip to Queensland.
Rose-tinted glasses
Brisbane is a smoking-hot blonde of a city. There are gorgeously leafy parks laced into a sleek, ultra-modern downtown that hums with activity, and it has up to 300 days of sunshine per year. How could I, raised in England’s vitamin-D-deprived northwest, not picture myself here?
But when my friends in Brisbane grumbled about the humidity, it didn’t bring me back down to earth. The sounds of chirruping cicadas and rolling surf were like a white-noise machine drowning out all doubt: surely this was it, I had found my place under the sun.
Was it the allure of my surroundings, or was I just riding the holiday high? After all, I was spending my time relaxing, seeing friends and family, not filling every waking hour with work, as many of us must do at home.
I wandered around Brisbane’s outlying neighbourhoods to track down the Filippino-Aussie fusion dessert of ube pavlova doughnuts and hunted for the hottest sambal in Indonesian canteens. I gazed across the city skyline from rooftop bars and ended each day with a ‘mango run’ to the supermarket, where I’d emerge from the air-conditioned chill into the warm evening, grasping a blushing mango like a trophy, ready to carve it into sticky golden wedges.
In short, I was indulging all my senses. I’d travelled all this way and now I wanted to relish everything.
Introspection instead of imitation
But what if, instead of going through all the hassle of relocating to a new place, we simply embraced a greater sense of curiosity and urgency back home?
Instead of tripping down a cobblestoned lane, sun-drunk, and falling helplessly into the travel trap, what if we took a minute to figure out what’s missing in our lives that this alluring new place is fulfilling. What if we paused and figured out how we might be able to summon some of those same senses, same emotions, as part of our day-to-day existence back home.
When the travel trap hits, the trick is to interrogate why certain places spark our best selves, and how we can sprinkle some of that magic back into our home-life habits.
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The gift that keeps on giving
The lesson from my own travels has been about making space for small joys and time outdoors.
When I wondered why repeat trips to Amsterdam felt so invigorating, the answer was more coffee and more weekend cycle rides (both highly replicable back home).
When I hiked Slovakia’s Tatras, my days spent in nature felt freeing and, while I couldn’t take the mountains with me, I learnt I could prioritise long solo walks without staring at a screen.
Then there was New Orleans. Spending time in this steamy southern city was thrilling because I was letting my imagination run riot on ghost tours and listening to locals spinning long, funny yarns in bars. I didn’t need to move to the Big Easy, but I did need more mischief and whimsy in my life. Bluntly, I needed to seize the day.
When we travel, it strips us of certainty. We might never set foot in this place again, so we walk regardless of the rain, we push open the unmarked door, we live boldly and urgently, like we’re on borrowed time (because we are).
If we can bring even a glimmer of that purpose and energy home, travel becomes about so much more than the trip: it creates an afterglow that lights up everyday life, long after the adventure is over. It’s a way to take home new attitudes, new habits and a new way of life, far better than any souvenir, and treasure them.
Go in search of the world’s most alluring lifestyles on a small-group trip with Intrepid.
