There’s a peculiar magic that arrives with age. Somewhere in my late sixties, I became both highly visible and strangely invisible, sometimes in the same airport terminal. Travel sharpens the contradiction. You notice it because you’re moving through the world with purpose, not apology. And purpose, it turns out, is often filtered through assumptions once your hair gives you away.
The Gift of Invisibility on the Road
When I travel now, I often move under the radar. I sit in cafés or train stations long enough to watch a place exhale. No one is sizing me up. No one is rushing me along. Invisibility grants a kind of grace. I’m not expected to perform competence or charm. I’m simply present.
This is especially true when I travel slowly. I blend. I observe. I notice the small things—the way people queue, how a city wakes up, who lingers and who bolts. Travel becomes quieter and, oddly, richer. I don’t have to prove anything anymore. Not endurance. Not relevance. Not that I “still” belong here.
When Invisibility Gets Awkward
Of course, invisibility has its sharp edges. I’ve stood at hotel counters while younger travellers were served first, as if I were part of the décor. I’ve been talked around instead of to and spoken to slowly, carefully, just in case.
Airports are particularly good at this. No matter how streamlined the process, I am guaranteed one thing: the scanner will go off. Every time. Knee replacement. Continuously, the knee replacement. I lift my pant leg like it’s a party trick, half-apologetic, half-resigned, while the agent nods knowingly. We both know how this ends.
And then there’s the question that really gets under my skin: “Are you 75 or over?” It’s asked, so I don’t have to take off my shoes. It’s meant to be helpful. It still lands like a slight slap. Do I look that old? Apparently, yes—because no one hesitates. No squinting. No mental math. Just straight through. Shoes on. Dignity is slightly off.
The Visibility I Didn’t Order
Then there’s the visibility that arrives uninvited. On public transit, people often stand up for me. Sometimes I’m grateful. Sometimes I’m annoyed if they don’t. And sometimes—this is the uncomfortable truth—I’m secretly pleased when they do. It’s a strange emotional cocktail: pride, irritation, relief, and a faint sense of being exposed.
When someone offers me a seat, they’re not seeing me. They’re seeing my age. My posture. My hair. A calculation happens quickly, and I benefit from it. I don’t always know how to feel about that. I accept the seat, of course. I’m not a martyr. But I notice the moment every time.
The Quiet Perks of Being Counted Out
And then there are the moments when age works entirely in my favour. I ask for a senior discount, and no one blinks. No raised eyebrows. No “Really?” Just a quiet nod and a reduced price. It’s efficient. It’s validating. It’s also a bit sobering.
I’m visible enough to qualify, invisible enough not to be questioned. There’s something oddly comforting about that transaction. No explanations required. No proof demanded. Just acceptance.
Loving the Freedom, Resenting the Label
What I love about being this age on the road is the freedom. I travel more slowly. I choose better. I don’t chase experiences for the story anymore; I let them find me. Being less watched means being more myself.
What I resent are the assumptions stitched into every interaction. That age equals fragility. That help is always needed. That capability has an expiry date. Travel makes these assumptions impossible to ignore—but it also gives me endless chances to quietly disprove them.
Learning to Hold Both
In my seventies, I have learned to live in the tension between being seen and being overlooked. I use invisibility to observe, to rest, to slip through spaces unnoticed. I use visibility when I need respect, clarity, or a seat on a crowded tram.
Travel has taught me that neither state defines me unless I let it. I am not the knee that sets off the scanner. I am not the shoes that stay on. I am not the discount or the offered seat.
I am still here. Still curious. Still moving through the world with my eyes wide open—even when the world isn’t quite sure how to look back.
