All I wanted was to read, and then I started traveling

For as long as I can remember, books have been the ultimate form of escapism for me. There’s nothing more relaxing than opening the pages of a novel and immersing myself in a new setting, meeting all sorts of unusual characters, without the anxiety of having to do those things in real life.

In a way, it’s kind of like taking a vacation without the crowded airports, stressful plane rides, expensive hotel rooms and jetlag.

On the flip side, though, reading about so many far-flung places can have the uncanny ability to inspire wanderlust even in the most die-hard of bookworms.

And so, despite preferring the comforts of living a near hermit-like existence, I have found myself browsing the internet for travel deals, dusting my suitcase and passports off and traveling to actual, physical places.

But all best laid plans have a caveat or two. For me, it meant that every getaway had to be the ideal location for literary activities – whether it’s reading Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban in cozy tea shop in London, or eating freshly made pasta in an Italian farmhouse while poring over my favorite passages of Under the Tuscan Sun, or lazing on a hammock on a remote Pacific island with a dogeared paperback of Lord of the Flies.

However, as enjoyable as those kinds of vacations were, I was always left wanting for more. Like somehow I had missed out on something special. Perhaps, it was that palpable feeling of really, truly absorbing the essence of a locale – its landscapes, its cities, its cuisine, its people.

So therein lies the bookish person’s dilemma. How does one truly experience a place, when all you want to do is stick your nose in a book?

Well, it wasn’t until I had a child that it finally clicked into place. The answer was so simple: be present in every place, in every new experience. We must relish moments, as if we too are children seeing everything for the very first time.

In the Spanish countryside, I watched my young daughter pick dandelions. She blew on them, and chased the feathery seeds as they drifted up into the sun-kissed sky. It brought me back to my own childhood, and I couldn’t help feeling my chest tighten with emotions. On a beach in Palawan, at dusk, we spotted baby sharks skimming the shallow waters for food. My kid squealed in fear and amazement. To my embarrassment, so did I.

Most recently, on a trip to New Zealand, this non-outdoorsy, self-professed book nerd went on nature walks through picturesque hillsides, national parks with glaciers looming in the background and dark caves with millions of glow-worms up above.

There was an inadvertent zip-line adventure that included not one, not two, not three, not four, not five but six zip-lines – one of which was 400m long on top of a rainforest canopy. Quite honestly, I thought I might die that day. But I survived. And maybe, I might have even enjoyed it a wee bit, eyes closed and all.

It wasn’t until late in the evenings in my hotel room, that my mind would once again drift into make-believe stories. After a hot bath, I would lay down on my fluffy pillows and crisp white sheets and turn on my Kindle.

There, I lost myself in The Lord of the Rings and The Hobbit, remembering the sweeping vistas I’d just witnessed that day. I was present, in real life and in fiction. And to me, that’s the best of both worlds.