Why Do Some People Love Travelling and Others Don’t?
This question gently floated into my mind one morning and has lingered ever since: why do some people absolutely love travelling while others seem perfectly content staying put?
Lately, it’s been more relevant than ever. My parents are visiting us in England this summer, and they’re truly excited about seeing more of the world—Scotland, the Isle of Man, perhaps even Albania. I really want to take them everywhere they dream of going. But, of course, life has its own pace. Work has been intense, with a critical piece of work underway over the next two quarters, and getting time off isn’t easy. Travelling across Europe is also expensive, and with Indian passports, every trip comes with a fair share of visa hurdles.
They’ve been to Europe before and absolutely loved it. Now they dream of seeing North America—Canada and the US. I wish I could take them there. Unfortunately, my US visa was once rejected, without any clear explanation. That experience left a mark, and I’ve been hesitant to apply again. It's a quiet, lingering disappointment—especially knowing how much it would mean to them.
What struck me recently was a contrast I noticed with a close friend. Their parents are also visiting this summer, but they have no interest in travelling. None at all. And my friend, interestingly, has never felt drawn to travel either. Part of me envies that—it seems like a simpler life, free from the yearning to be elsewhere.
That contrast got me thinking about where my own love for travel came from.
My friend and I both grew up in middle-class Indian families in the 90s. Back then, the Indian economy was navigating uncertain waters. Liberalisation had just begun, and while there was newfound hope, there was also caution. Every rupee was precious, and most families lived modestly, with little space for indulgence.
My father worked at a large public sector bank, partly owned by the government. The job came with stability—and a rather unique perk I’ve never quite seen elsewhere: a travel benefit that encouraged families to take proper breaks together.
The bank offered two options: a 2-week holiday every two years, or a 3-week one every four years. For the shorter trip, the bank reimbursed sleeper-class train fares for the employee and their dependents—up to 2,500 km, which essentially covered the length and breadth of India. Later, this was upgraded to AC 3-tier and eventually to AC 2-tier travel. Accommodation came in the form of “holiday homes”—guesthouses in scenic locations—where we could stay at no cost.
If holiday homes were unavailable, especially during peak seasons, the bank reimbursed hotel stays within a decent budget. To cover other expenses, employees could encash 15 days of earned leave. The four-year option was even better: domestic flights, better hotels, and more flexibility. In time, some even used the allowance to explore neighbouring countries in Asia, topping up the cost themselves.
Initially, the benefit couldn’t be exchanged for cash. But later, as demand grew, the bank allowed people to encash 75% of the amount if they chose not to travel. My dad, though, always chose to take the trip.
And so we travelled. Every couple of years, without fail. Across states and seasons. For me and my sister, these weren’t just holidays—they were cherished family rituals. We would count down to them with such excitement. Trains became a familiar rhythm of our childhood—early morning starts, mom’s home-packed snacks, the thrill of a window seat, and the slowly changing landscapes.
We saw so much of India that way—the serene backwaters of Kerala, the vibrant fields of Punjab, the cool mountain air of Himachal. These experiences stitched together some of our fondest memories. In retrospect, I realise how rare and special that was. India is vast, and air travel was far out of reach for most middle-class families then. This benefit opened doors that might have otherwise remained closed.
Interestingly, some of my dad’s friends, who had higher salaries but lacked this travel benefit, hardly travelled at all. My friend’s parents, for instance, were teachers—they earned well but had no such incentive that helped them travel. Perhaps that made the difference.
After moving abroad, I carried the habit with me. Travel remained something close to my heart. When I met my wife, I was thrilled to discover she felt the same. It’s one of the things that made us click so naturally. For us, travelling isn’t about ticking boxes—it’s about reconnecting, slowing down, seeing the world through fresh eyes.
Our travels have gifted us so many shared moments: peaceful walks in the Lake District, wandering the cobbled alleys of Prague, spontaneous escapes to quiet countryside towns. It’s during these times we have some of our most meaningful conversations—moments when we truly pause and live.
So perhaps the difference isn’t just in who we are, but in what we were exposed to. It’s about opportunity, access, and the little nudges that shape our values and habits. Some of us had a glimpse of the world early on—and fell in love with the promise it held.
And once that door opens, it’s hard not to keep walking through it.