One constant in my bourgeois, progressive middle class life has been the imperative to travel. Throughout my childhood and adult life, family, friends and society at large have all been absolutely clear that my life will be shallow and meaningless unless I obtain a number and variety of stamps in my passport. The mechanism by which travel is supposed to enrich and fulfil me is unclear, as are the exact prescriptions about what kind of travel and what sorts of destinations are desirable for whatever travel is supposed to acheive.
I have always been deeply sceptical about this insistence on going overseas. It may be awesome, but is it really culturally or personally enriching to trek in Nepal? I would argue that it's equally foreign and novel for eastern-seaboard dwelling middle class Australian to trek in central Australia. Given that everyone else you know has already gone dancing in Latin America, does a quick twirl on the dancefloors of Chile really make you different, or just another member of the crowd? And as for the people who rave about the museums and historical sites of Europe - have you been to the cultural institutions in your own country? There's nothing inherently authentic about trying to cram a lifetime's worth of capital A Art into the stops on your Kontiki tour if you're just going to ignore that stuff for the rest of your life. I would argue that the really enriching journeys are the ones we take within ourselves - where we take an emotional or psychological risk, where we challenge ourselves and learn and strive and succeed and fail. Perhaps these journeys can happen on the other side of a plane trip, but for lots of people they don't. And these experiences are readily accessible in our own lives and landscapes if we're willing to take them on.
In my case, overseas travel (which I haven't done much of) has a fairly predictable pattern. My reaction to a new environment has four distinct phases, and my impression of a place once I have left is not related to how deeply the plight of its noble peasant people has touched my sensitive soul. Rather, it is determined by what stage I am in when I leave the new environment for somewhere else. It is at once helpful and slightly frustrating that I recognise these phases as I pass through them, but I seem to be somewhat powerless to alter their progression. The first phase is:
Bewilderment:
At first I am confused. This can extend from simple mistakes with public transport systems, or difficulty finding the part of town where food is sold in large quantities at low prices, all the way through to complete geographical and temporal discombobulation. In Vancouver, I walked the wrong way down the street every time I left my hostel for three days. No matter how much I consulted the map, after a few blocks I had to turn around and head back the way I'd come.
Fortunately, this phase is usually over quickly. It's a pretty debilitating - there's a temptation to stay inside and hide until the world makes sense again, but it actually helps to go outside and get lost a few times, and at least I know that in advance. And within a couple of days I've moved to phase two.
False Familiarity:
Eventually the fog of bewilderment lifts, and the whole world is illuminated in the crisp sharp light of understanding. The weight of uncertainty is lifted from my brow and a sense of confidence and certainty is restored in the world. I know where the grocery store is. I know how the public transport system works. I may not have actually been there, but I know the names of the important nightlife venues and can readily recommend them to newcomers. Indeed, I am a competent and well functioning member of the local community. People start asking "Do you work here?"
Of course, all this confidence and clarity is complete bollocks. In fact I'm just some Johnny-come-lately and all the "local knowledge" I've got is readily available from a tourist brochure. It's only a matter of time until my status as a complete tourist is exposed. Which brings us to stage three:
Inchoate Rage:
Eventually, the facade of false familiarity has to break down, and when it does I am left disillusioned, confused, and most of all angry. It becomes immediately obvious that the place I'm in is a worthless hole, vastly inferior to everywhere else I've been, and the people who live in and love this place are ignorant or arrogant dupes. I can find nothing worthwhile in my new home, I consider leaving, I rage and rail against the injustice of being stuck in such a terrible, I swear at my ski boots, I bitch about Czech people. The list goes on.
Of course, this anger is both temporary and absurd. I will later be deeply embarrased about this phase and the petulant and childish things I have said and thought. In the depths of this phase in Chamonix I swore I would never return to that valley. Now, in the midst of this phase in Rossland, I yearn to be in Chamonix which is in fact one of the greatest places in the known universe. Now that I am accustomed to this pattern I find the rage less overwhelming. I think about slowly tortuting a small cute animal to death, but I don't actually start looking for an appropriately fluffy bunny. Unfortunately, being aware that this is just the third phase of being in a new place doesn't allow me to bypass it altogether, but with luck it will make it less intense and shorter lived.
One day, however, the rage will pass. I will ski, or hike, or eat something delicious, or generally roll around in my own filth and suddenly my new home will be wonderful place. Thus begins the fourth and final stage.
Acceptance:
Acceptance goes both ways. I accept my location and it accepts me. Not only do I know where the grocery store is, but I no longer assume that its staff hate me. I continue to tell terrible jokes, but people actually recognise that they're jokes rather than completely inappropriate comments that I mean sincerely. They don't necessarily laugh, but provided they understand that I'm being facetious that's good enough. This is the stage you want to be in. Life is good, you're more than just a bumbling tourist and people no longer want to drown you in the nearest river.
So for now I'm waiting for my ski boots to stop hurting, the snow to fill in the gaps between the rocks and logs at the ski field, and the visibility to be good enough for long enough that I can actually work out where I'm skiing. Roll on phase four.
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