Peculiar Travel
Musings from my time in Europe this summer.
I realize the way I travel is a bit odd.
My Google Maps is dotted with cafes mostly, as if I was attempting to go on a caffeine bender in foreign lands. For me, these are like the little planets The Little Prince hopped to and from. Each one a world in itself. Each one helps me see more of the universe within me.
People-watching is one of my favorite activities. I try to commit every face I see to memory knowing that I’ll never see them again. The kids walking with their parents; I wonder what they will do with their lives. The man with the forlorn face; I wonder what ails him and I hope his day swells. The woman with the blue sundress and a chestnut tress swooshing past me; I wonder if she’d ever notice me. I am enamored often and swiftly.
I love museums. But they are the most exhausting place for me to be in. I can’t explain it. Every step feels as if I’m in Everett Base Camp—oxygen is thin, and I may just pass out next to the portrait of some European king.
At art museums, I experience sensory overload of seeing beauty and craft amply represented in every wall. I try to imagine the artist while they were constructing their masterpiece: standing on their shoulder, examining every stroke, inquiring every choice, delighting at the result.
Or when I visited the museum of European history (big name), attempting to absorb nearly 700 years of history in a couple of hours. The Hamburgs, and the Turks, and the Nazis, and the Slavs, and the Magyars, and the Bourbons, and the Dutch, and the Irish, and the Swedes, and the Moors, and the Jews, and the Soviets, and the Prussians, and the Medici, and all these groups who we now have to thank for beautiful buildings, transcendent ideas, and horrible acts of evil.
My goal is to not do everything, see everyone, be everywhere. I’ve traveled enough to know that when travel feels like a chore, I’m short-changing myself. I don’t have a grand theory of travel, or some click-baity vapid musing on travel.1
The only definitive thing I can say about travel is this: Travel is an intimate experience. It is you finding the edges of your world and expanding them. An exposition of your tastes, desires, and values. It is one of the most powerful ways to invite deep introspection to your life.
This sounds obvious, until you see that the way people travel is often guided by Instagram photo-ops, travel guides designed for bragging rights, or with the goal to marathon your way through “everything there is to see.” What should be a cherished moment of introspection, of honoring our nature, too often becomes a mimetic exercise. I’m guilty of this, of course.
But during my recent trip to Hungary, Belgium, and France I resisted the compulsion of vanity tourism. I decided not to let my plans be guided by what would get the most hearts or where I could get the most adrenaline. That’s not me. I made it a point to focus on being me: to read and write, and take pictures, and meander, and drink lots of coffee, and walk by bodies of water, and do something in my bucket list like riding a Vespa-like scooter. To call it an early night, or make it to sunrise with the right person.
Find the way you want to travel. You don’t want to take any pictures. Fair enough. You want to find the tastiest croissant in that town? Go for it. You want to trade museums for afternoons in the park seeing people do they same things they do in your town? I don’t see the harm.
Please see the world out there. See it with your kids. See it with a friend. See it by yourself. We are in a magical era where an aluminum bird can carry you through the atmosphere while you eat warm pasta watching the movie “IF” next to 250 other strangers. Where we now hold babel in our hands, and when we can buy anything by tapping a piece of plastic that holds our wealth.
My latest travels showed me more about myself and left me more confused than ever. I say this with no sense of despair, for this is a gift. To peel back the layers that become shells in the regularity of our ordinary lives. To bring forth a pause that invites awareness—the fundamental element for intentional living.
Sometimes, what is underneath the shell, and what you become aware of is unpleasant, shameful, ugly. But the only way to find lasting acceptance with ourselves is to see our shadow for what it is. I’m a strong believer that travel gifts you that clarity and much more.
I travel my own way to see the world and myself.
A few more Foticos
Like this essay titled The Case Against Travel.
"I am enamored often and swiftly." What a wonderful way to live. Loved this piece Camilo, especially your argument for the depth of self-discovery that comes with traveling authentically, as yourself rather than an ideal tourist.
The way we talk about travel reveals a lot about what's wrong with the way we travel these days:
"You went to Europe this summer? Where did you go?"
"I did Athens, Stockholm, and The Lakes"
What is up with "DID?" Travel should not feel like something to do. It should feel the way you described it.