I recently returned from a long-anticipated summer trip to France. Not having been overseas in a couple of decades, I genuinely believed that—with proper planning, strategic thinking, and an adequate budget—I could create an experience for my husband and me that felt both “foreign” and comfortably “domestic.”
It turns out, as with many things in life, that was wishful thinking.
The old saying, you don’t know what you don’t know, has never rung truer. I expected my husband to struggle a bit more out of his element. In fact, I gave him what I now realize were slightly patronizing pep talks about staying open to new experiences.
But, as Tay Tay wisely sings, Hi, I’m the problem, it’s me.
I was the one who struggled.
Despite paving the way with months of research –trying to anticipate every hiccup –I found the experience far more challenging than I expected. My husband, on the other hand, seemed to float through it, delighted at every turn. He exceeded every expectation I had and embraced each moment with ease and enthusiasm.
It made me realize that traveling abroad is easier when you’re younger, when you haven’t grown quite so accustomed to the comforts and conveniences we often take for granted in the U.S. Even with a generous budget, you can’t buy your way out of culture shock — or soften the edges of being a foreigner in a foreign place.
Does this make me sound like a Karen, cozy in my middle-class American bubble? Maybe. I’d like to say I feel ashamed of that… but the truth is, I don’t. What I feel is curious. Curious about myself. About how I respond to discomfort. About why I assumed I’d be someone else, somewhere else.
I tried. I really did. I left my comfort zone. I saw beautiful things. I tried new foods. I attempted (unsuccessfully) to learn and speak French. I met new people. I tried to lean in. And that effort counts for something.
Mostly, I’m grateful. Grateful for my husband’s joy, his ease, and the way he loved the trip—start to finish. My experience was different from his, and I’m still processing that.
Two days after returning, I’m left with this: maybe I didn’t enjoy our once-in-a-lifetime trip as much as I’d hoped. But I’m okay with that. Because growth doesn’t always feel like joy. Sometimes, it feels like friction. Like disorientation. Like the sting of self-awareness.
And that’s part of the journey too.
I don’t have to cross an ocean to stay curious. I don’t have to stamp my passport to see beauty, learn something new, or discover what my husband and I call SVEs—Scenes of Visionary Enchantment—a phrase borrowed from Lewis and Clark.
Growing older gives us the gift of perspective. And sometimes, the best discoveries are the ones we make within ourselves.
