Travel is good. Even if you don’t have a staggeringly fanstastic wonderful time which you expected, you learn things.
For example, after my recent trip to Montreal, I learned that I am definitely not a big city person.
Montreal, Tehran, Toronto, London, whatever, ugly, beautiful, by the water, by the mountain, polluted, clean. In one respect they’re all the same: you have to plan your day around the commute. You spend a huge chunk of your life in trains, metros, cars. You have to be constantly thinking about not missing the last train/bus/sub/ the traffic/ otherwise you’ll be stranded and that’s it.
OK, so there are books and laptops and so on to beguile the time, make you feel you are being productive. But the fact remains that it is those schedules and planning which drives your day-structure.
Now I know my present circumstances in Halifax is very temporary and very lucky, with my apartment, the kids school, my office and Dal, and the lovely downtown all within walking distance of each other. But say, even if you exile yourself and go across the water to Dartmouth (“Don’t even think about it!” someone shrieked to me yesterday. “My friend did it and they got divorced- I’m sure it was because they went to Dartmouth to live!”), tempted by the lower rent prices, you’re still only a twenty minute drive, or a half-hour bus ride, or a ten minute ferry ride from downtown Halifax.
Which is, of course, the only important place in the whole wide world.