Whilst strolling towards the departure lounge to catch my second flight of the day, Drake's Views coursed through my headphones in what I considered an authentic listening experience - I was in his city, after all. It was Keep the Family Close, the album opener, that struck the most poignant chord. Maybe it was the irony of doing the exact opposite of the title's imperative, maybe it's just a good tune, but it triggered a pause in time that I'll never forget. Satisfaction in its rawest form.Fast forward two and a half years and the romanticism of 5am in Toronto is merely a mirage of my memory. Stood on an over-populated train, my tired legs struggle to suspend my hungover body as the ThamesLink stops and starts its way through the Hertfordshire countryside. Snail-like rain drops dribble down the doors, blurring the view of a lifeless grey horizon. Middle aged commuters sip over-priced, instant coffee, fuelling the fight to avoid eye contact with any of their neighbours.
It was at that moment when the opening notes of Keep the Family Close, pricked my ears into life. It was the first time I'd listened to the song in a long time, and its impact was like that of seeing an ex after a prolonged period apart.
The postcard memoire of Toronto swirled into the suburban British sky. The golden glow brought a poignant instant of mental conflict. One one hand, the nostalgia, the memories. Spending a year in South America was a life-changing chapter of my twenty-three years on Earth. It provided me with enough moments and anecdotes to fill a lifetime, whilst forcing me to face battles that I could never have anticipated pre-trip. Those experiences are now engrained in the foundations of my character.
Attached to this sense of fond appreciation came a heavy presence of reality. The present moment washed the colour out of the Toronto skyline as the urban high-rises of north London pulled rank and dominated my surroundings once more. The wonder of travel can capsulate the mind like nothing else but, like anything, it doesn't last forever. Once over, it re-paints itself as a fantasy, wistfully floating through the corridors of your mind, dipping in and out of picture frames.
It's been a significant period of time since I stood in Toronto. In that time life has continued to throw up its hurdles and reap the rewards of achievement. I got a degree, started a career and spent good times with better people. The value of that can never be under-estimated, yet the void travel leads can never be satisfied by everyday elixirs. You can pour as many double gin & tonics into the glass as you want, it'll never fill up.
It is essential that we compartmentalise travel and exploration into its own cerebral playground. Comparing Copacabana caipirinhas to professional promotions is never going to produce an identical feeling of satisfaction, but they are both brilliant in their own ways. Today, the world is frantically engaging in an act of self-mediation, attempting to balance the Ph of their feelings by comparing the past with the present. What have I done? What am I doing? What will I do?
When we reminisce, it is scientifically proven that we are more likely to remember the good times, allowing the negatives to fade into vapoured insignificance. The Toronto sunrise preceded fifteen further hours of lone flying followed by the news that my suitcase had been left behind - no-one's romanticising that image. When we force present to compete with past, the former gets a rough ride against its filtered, ever-smiling counter-part.
Travel memories are there to be enjoyed, but not as a tool to resent the present. The day after this post was born, my commute produced a sunrise that would have competed with any around the world. The roaming farmer's fields became a radiant savannah, as Toronto's orb paid a striking visit to Hertfordshire. Sometimes the true gems are right in front of our eyes, we just have to look forward.
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