The Homebody Trait

Are you an adventurous type, or a homebody? And is that simply a matter of personality, or could it also be a matter of genetics?

I've always been a homebody. I never cared much for travelling.

The only time I ever lived away from home was for a year in Geneva, Switzerland, while completing my graduate studies. I could have stayed another year to write my thesis, but I couldn't wait to get home.

I attended university in my hometown. The only period of extensive travel in my youth was the obligatory post-high school backpacking trip through Europe. In thirteen weeks I visited twelve countries, from Scandinavia to Yugoslavia.

There were a handful of shorter sojourns after that. The most memorable came while I was studying Russian at university. Our department organized a ten-day trip to the Soviet Union over Christmas break, and I found myself standing in Red Square on New Year's Eve, welcoming 1986.

I've travelled to Israel three times, including a month-long family trip during which we rented a car and explored the country from the Lebanese border in the north to the Negev Desert in the south.

When our children were young, we escaped winter with a few all-inclusive vacations in Cuba, though those hardly count as travelling in my books. Our last real family trip was about ten years ago, to Vienna and Budapest.

I've only taken two trips alone with my wife: one to Israel before we were married, and another to Utah for a hiking vacation.

That's about it.

I'm not counting the trips of my childhood. My grandparents spent every winter in Florida, so we flew down twice a year. In those days, flying still felt like an occasion. We dressed up to board the plane, and there were smoking sections.

We also took several road trips into the United States. Over the years I've probably visited thirty states, every Canadian province except Newfoundland and Labrador, and none of the territories.

Ironically, my children have already travelled more extensively than I ever have. They've been to Europe, Asia, South America, and throughout the Middle East.

Perhaps that's simply because travel is more accessible today than it was for my generation. Airfare is relatively cheaper, flights are more frequent, and crossing continents has become almost routine.

For most of human history, however, the opposite was true. Most people spent their entire lives within twenty miles of where they were born. Today, crossing an ocean can feel almost as ordinary as running an errand.

Since our children left home, home is exactly where I want to be.

My wife, on the other hand, has discovered a new freedom. In the past year alone she's travelled to Mexico, Hungary, the Czech Republic, Austria, and Italy. This fall she's planning a trip to Portugal.

She goes without me. Usually she travels with one or two of our adult children.

When her friends learn she's travelling without her husband, they inevitably ask whether I'm depressed or whether there's trouble in paradise.

There isn't.

I simply don't enjoy travelling very much.

Part of that is age. My body no longer adapts easily to unfamiliar beds, unfamiliar food, or changing time zones. I've also become a nervous flyer ever since a harrowing approach into Toronto a few years ago. We were literally seconds from touching down when the aircraft suddenly pitched sharply upward and aborted the landing. The pilot later explained we'd encountered severe wind shear.

Flying itself has also become an increasingly unpleasant experience. I'm taller than average, and I'm convinced airline seats have become smaller over the years. Everything about flying seems worse than it once was: the delays, the uncertainty, the endless fees. Passengers used to be treated like customers. Now we're treated more like cargo.

By the time I arrive somewhere overseas, it takes me two days just to recover from getting there.

Yet I often feel as though I have to justify not wanting to travel.

Somehow we've come to equate travel with living life to the fullest. If you aren't posting selfies from exotic destinations, people wonder whether you've somehow given up on life itself.

Recently, though, I've begun to wonder whether there's something deeper going on.

As my mother grew older, she became a homebody too.

So did her parents.

My grandfather retired relatively young after building a successful business. He could easily have spent his retirement travelling the world in five-star luxury.

He had absolutely no interest.

Instead, he rode his bicycle every day for exercise and spent countless happy hours painting in his studio.

His daughter—my mother—was much the same. She had every opportunity to travel but rarely did. She wasn't a recluse. She was active in her neighbourhood, but seldom ventured beyond it. When she sold her house, she moved into a condominium down the street. When she decided condo living wasn't for her, she bought another house around the corner.

That got me thinking.

We know that genetics influence everything from eye colour and body type to the risk of diabetes, Alzheimer's disease, and depression. Personality traits themselves are partly inherited.

Why not this?

Perhaps some people are simply wired to seek novelty while others are wired to find deep satisfaction in familiar surroundings.

Perhaps being a homebody is every bit as much a part of one's nature as being an introvert or an extrovert.

I think we're fortunate to live in an age when travel is largely a matter of choice. In many ways, the ability to move freely around the world has become a symbol of prosperity. Owning a private jet has become the ultimate status symbol.

Not very long ago, however, crossing continents usually meant something entirely different. It meant you were fleeing war, persecution, famine, or poverty in the hope of giving your children a better future.

Seen from that perspective, perhaps staying home is the greater luxury. Maybe the greatest privilege isn't having the freedom to leave.

It's having the freedom to stay home.