At the end of the month, my wife and I will be heading off to Greece for several weeks.

      I’m looking forward to it because I love Greece. I love strolling down the oldest street in Europe in the middle of the Athenian Plaka. I love the hotel in Naxos where you can drink “the best wine in the universe” on the patio overlooking the cerulean blue of the Aegean and the imposing ruins of an ancient temple to Apollo.

      I love Greek restaurants where you almost have to beg for a check because every place lets you stay as long as you want—and then invariably the waiter will finally bring the check with a complimentary little dessert. I love the Greek idea of philoxenia, an almost untranslatable word that means, essentially, friend to the stranger, because so many Greeks evidently believe in the concept.  

      Yet, I’m also not at all looking forward to the trip. Part of me, in truth, wishes I wasn’t going. Part of me is really anxious about going. Part of me is scared.

     Travel anxiety is not an officially diagnosed mental health issue, although there is actually a medical term for it—hodophobia, an extreme fear of traveling. Mental health professionals suggest it can be severe enough to interfere with people’s daily lives. And it’s a condition that, I think, gets worse as we age.

      We’re more anxious in general about something bad happening, particularly to our health, when we’re older because something bad happening is more likely to happen. And we’re more worried about the new, the unexpected, the different, all the stuff we encounter when we travel, because as we age we prefer the reassurance of the old, the expected, the similar.

      Put them together and maybe you get hodophobia.

      I’m anxious about this almost-three-week trip to Greece because it’s the first big trip I’ve taken since I had a massive heart attack ten months ago. What if there’s new chest pain, when I’m on a remote island where I don’t speak the language and my cardiologist, my PCP, my pharmacist, are 5,000 miles away?

      I’m anxious because I have a hernia that sometimes pains me. The pain usually passes, but what if this time, these weeks, it doesn’t? Many years ago, I had a hernia operation while living in France, but I was a lot younger then, I was in otherwise very good health, this happened in Paris and I spoke the language.

      What happens if my vertigo comes back? If I get Covid? If I get a blood clot in my foot (I’ve had one of those, too)?

      I’m anxious because there’s the traveling itself. I’m not crazy in the first place about flying (actually, as I’ve gotten older, I’m really scared about flying). And long-distance traveling has always been exhausting, even when you’re younger, more capable and more carefree. Now it’s beyond grueling.

Can I still do it? Do I even want to do it?

The answer, ultimately, finally, is, well, yes. The reservations have been made, the schedule has been set. I’m going. And when I’m not anxious, I’ll love it, I know that. Most of the time, I’ll forget, at least somewhat, about all the fears. The joy will outweigh the anxiety.

And as soon as we come back, we’ll start planning the next trip. But I also know that each time, each year, each trip, it gets just a little bit harder.