Is Traveling Still Worth It?

After almost 35 years of being on the road—planes, trains, and the occasional tuk-tuk—I find myself asking a question I never thought I would: is traveling still worth it?

It’s not that I’ve fallen out of love with discovering new places, far from it. Vietnam and Cambodia recently gave me some unforgettable adventures, the kind that leave you smiling long after you’ve returned home. I can still picture the mist rolling across Ninh Binh, still taste the bite of chili in a perfect street-side bowl of noodles, still hear the chatter of a Cambodian market alive with color and energy. Travel still has the power to move me deeply.

But lately, I’ve started to notice that something feels… off.

I’m tired. Not of the act of traveling itself, but of what traveling has become.

I’m tired of being squeezed through crowded sites like toothpaste out of a tube, to catch a glimpse of something that once felt magical. Places that once invited wonder now feel more like amusement parks, where the sheer weight of numbers dictates the experience.

I’m tired of competing with influencers and bloggers who stake out the one perfect photo spot, tripods planted like flags on Everest, as though a place only matters if it fits neatly into a social media feed. Travel used to feel personal—an exchange between you and a place. Now it often feels like a performance staged for an audience you didn’t ask to join.

And I’m tired of the lack of respect. Travelers wandering almost naked into temples, treating sacred sites like fashion runways. It’s not about prudishness—I have no issue with naked bodies—it’s about context. There’s a time and a place, and ancient temples simply aren’t it.

Then there are the moments that feel almost metaphorical. In Salzburg, for example, I was pushed right off the sidewalk by a troop of Chinese tourists moving in formation, so focused on keeping pace with their guide’s flag that they didn’t notice anyone else. Their behavior reminded me of geopolitics—the way their government asserts dominance in the South China Sea, claiming everything in sight and leaving little space for others. That push off the sidewalk became more than an annoyance; it became a symbol of how overwhelming the culture of mass tourism can feel.

I could list more frustrations—long lines, over-commercialized towns, locals who now see visitors more as customers than guests—but perhaps it’s enough to say: I’ve had enough simply at least of this version of travel.

And yet, before this sounds too bitter, I remind myself of something important. I have already seen the world in ways that are no longer possible. Many of the places now overrun with mass tourism, I experienced in their quieter, more authentic days. I was lucky enough to wander them on my own—or nearly so—before the flood of selfie sticks, hashtags, and package tours arrived.

I remember standing at the Sigiriya Rock in Sri Lanka at sunrise, with only two others, as the rock slowly revealed itself in the soft light of dawn. I remember walking the streets of Prague when they still felt like hidden gems rather than crowded backdrops. I remember beaches that were silent except for the sound of the waves, not the thrum of music from beach clubs. These are moments I’ll carry with me forever, and they soften the frustrations of today.

So maybe this is a good place to pause. To step back from chasing new destinations just for the sake of it. To let the next wave of travelers have their turn, while I hold onto the memories of when it all felt different—when travel still had space for serendipity and silence.

Perhaps my journeys from here on will be slower, quieter, more intentional. Maybe I’ll seek out the less obvious paths, or return to a place not for novelty, but for the comfort of familiarity. And perhaps I’ll stay still for a while, reflecting on the privilege of the journeys I’ve already taken.

Because sometimes, the best journeys aren’t the ones still ahead of us, but the ones that live on in memory—moments that continue to shape who we are long after the trip has ended.

And for me, those journeys have been more than enough.