This Book Is About Travel

by Andrew Hyde

  Sometimes it feels to me like travelers discover how to make a fire on the road and then come back to a cold climate and freeze — dreaming about the warmth they once new, without attempting to, I don’t know, use their new knowledge to build another fire. A spark happens, somewhere, at some point in each and every trip that shows a traveler that life can be lived quite happily in a different way than they have known. The return, the blues, is part of the work of integrating those lessons and sharing them with the communities you find yourselves in. The return is not the end, it’s a part of the journey; part of what helps you see what you have become.

  You have become something and are forever changed. And that doesn’t go away, even if it feels like it. Every cent is worth every expense, even for the “it’s expensive” crowd. You would be hard pressed to find a traveler that regrets doing a trip, but easy to find someone that wouldn’t work at a place again. Is this because we are expected to enjoy travel, in the same way we are expected to enjoy a cookie? Maybe. But cookies are pretty good. And anyway, you can ask that question of yourself, once you take your trip!

  Traveling, for me, has really been about learning to live my life deliberately. To both plan with intention and relax into spontaneity. This never really ends. So you finished a solo trip. Take a friend along on your next adventure and see what happens. You spent four months backpacking through Southeast Asia? Go stay in a hostel in Seattle for the weekend and go kayaking on the sound. Done traveling for a while? Keep telling your stories. Build the fire you learned how to make and invite others to share it and to feel it’s warmth. Help plant the spark in someone you care about. We are growing and changing and learning all the time: it’s all part of the journey.

  LONDON, UNITED KINGDOM

  There was deep blue hue to the sky that can only come with the hour of midnight. The low lying, white clouds were all lit up from the flurry of artificial lights below — distilling out and reflecting back, somehow, the energy and purity of a city ready to celebrate, together.

  I had just received an email from someone that reads my blog, a barrage of criticisms for taking so many flights. I was ruining the world, I was told. Didn’t I know? My response had the subject line:

  “We Didn’t Save the World, Together”

  I set off not to see the world, but to not save it.

  Specifically.

  After almost two years, I think that I, no we, have accomplished just that. The worlds 7,000,000,000th person was born this year while the 6,000,000,000th person turned 13. I feel lucky that you can read this in between baby showers, building new hospitals, and figuring out the sexual identity of every member of the Wiggles.

  102,600,000 people died during my trip. I’m sorry for y/our loss.

  As the news went on another murder reporting spree, we lifted our chins and dreamed of a brighter future. We agreed we could be the change in the world that we wanted to see. That train wreck could just be a conspiracy. That man was shot down because he was evil, or at least he could have been. The drugs in the inner city have nothing, and I mean nothing, to do with any sort of government setup. I, too, hope they find that (white) girl.

  Now that we know “cancer is caused from polluted food” and “environmental reporting” has been played out to its fullest, we can all move on to more pleasurable reading.

  Stories are told, sold, retold and resold on the basis of a human emotion being sincere and caring toward one another. We have figured out just how to ask a question to get the emotional response for you, and me, to pull out our wallets and attention spans to save that one part in that story.

  The whales are still swimming. They say thank you for joining in the 1996 campaign. Just that one campaign did it. And the sharks find themselves in record numbers swimming happily in soups throughout the globe today, thanks to someone that cared. Not us. Not you. Not me. Not we.

  Before we get too celebratory in our mutual distraction from the world’s actual problems, we must talk about celebrities: the Queen (don’t tread on me) and this delightful picture of Lindsay Lohan looking as if the drugs have won (predator).

  Not you. Not me. Not he and not she. But we: together.

  “The Kardashians are more depressing to me than Hitler,” said comedian Wil Wheaton. We celebrate, obsess over, those who have contributed nothing to society. On the same front, the scientists solving real problems seem to attack each other because they are trying to be celebrities in their research circles. You cured cancer; that is adorable. Now, how do you look in a black dress? Our famous are considered white knights for doing nothing with selfish intent while our tinkerers are worried on how they, or their colleagues, will fit into the gossip magazines.

  While I can spend money to gawk from afar at the insecurities and achievements of celebrities, I cannot save the world at the supermarket. Even when I buy organic. Even when I buy local organic. The Monsanto corn and the factory chickens are still there. Spinning. Looking at you. Looking at me.

  If I didn’t board a flight in the last two years my smug carbon footprint would read something like, oh, I don’t know, “zero,” but the number of total planes that would have flown would have been the same at just over 10,000,000. With 16,000 worldwide flights a day, what are the real implications of someone, me, in this case, taking ten flights in two years? “Be the change you want to see in the world” is a rallying cry of our generation, and perhaps for good reason. But, at what cost? Or, what kind of change, exactly, do we — do I — want to be? Traveling has facilitated deep and lasting changes within me. What would have been the lasting effect of abstaining from flying, from giving up my seat on an already going, and most of the time sold out, flight? A change in my lifestyle is meaningless, a change in our lifestyle can be lasting.

  What is our narrative? Our lasting story? Can we change the world, together?

  Chapter 23

  INTERVIEW: TAYLOR DAVIDSON

  If you reject the food, ignore the customs, fear the religion and avoid the people, you might better stay at home.

  — James Michener

  OPPORTUNITIES

  I followed a link to a blog about travel late into my planning of the trip. It was by Taylor Davidson, who had just completed a sixteen month RTW trip. This was such an amazing thing to me as his blog was chock full of information that I was searching for. He is a fantastic photographer and shares his experiences liberally on his blog http://taylordavidson.com/. I met him a few months later at a conference in New Orleans to press him with questions about how he was able to live out my dream on the road.

  Photos by Taylor Davidson

  What was your first taste in international travel?

  My first taste of international travel was a giant bowl of unfamiliar vegetables that my parents put in front of me, told me I’d love, and let me eat on my own pace. I was 12 when my parents pulled my younger brother and I out of school to live on our 32-foot sailboat and sail down the east coast of the US from Virginia to the Bahamas. We spent nearly a year living on the boat, traveling around the Bahamas, stopping at islands for days, weeks, and months, anchoring in harbors, visiting the islands, doing school on the boat, meeting new temporary friends, creating new experiences, craving for some of the bits of the life we left behind. Baseball on the radio, books about travel, sketching boat designs, planning journeys, hiding from mosquitos, tasting fresh Bahamian bread, lugging gallons of water, rowing dinghys, spearing fish, sailing through the dark open seas. We did it all.

  What did you think about travelers before your trip?

  I was 12. I didn’t have a conception of what a “traveler” was. My preconceptions and judgements of travelers didn’t enter my mind until I was far older. My first international trip wasn’t a trip, it was life. I didn’t develop a disdain for tourists, a hero worship for “real travelers,” a lust for new bars in unfamiliar cities, until much later. The truth is, I’ve been working on losing those misguided perceptions ever since.

  What do you think about travele
rs and travel now that you have been on the road?

  Of course, I’ve taken far more trips since then. In addition to living abroad, to backpacking in India, to surprise birthday weekends in England, to destination weddings, to jaunts to South America, Europe and Asia, in 2008 I quit my full-time job to travel, take photographs, and fill in the gaps that an unhealthy fascination for maps had created in my mind. I started my cross-country drive by driving down to North Carolina to visit friends, and ended up hopping from one introduction to another, a stream of breakfasts, coffees, lunches, dinners and drinks across the country. As that drive turned into flights across the world, the journey changed, the goals morphed, but I stayed consistent with the same approach to traveling.

  From that, I have a respect for people that travel long-term, and an appreciation for how hard it can be to travel long-term. It’s not easy to keep that spirit of adventure burning for many months on the road. It’s also taught me how to embrace the spirit of traveling in my daily life.

  Is there a wrong way to travel?

  Unconsciously. There is no wrong way to travel, but there is a wrong way to think about traveling.

  Travel is one of our greatest opportunities to build experiences, knowledge, and memories — everlasting lessons for life. Everyone has to create those experience in their own way. To be a travel snob and look down on the choices people make about the type of experiences they choose to create is a guaranteed way to lose your zest for travel.

  I used to look down upon backpackers living in hostels to make cheap food in hostel kitchens so they could get blitzed and sleep until noon. I used to look down on people who travel merely to boast about where they’ve gone. I used to look down on people who wouldn’t eat at food stalls, or who followed guide book recommendations as if they were the absolute truth, or failed to think about the feelings, history and culture of the people and places they visited. I looked down on tourists, I worshipped travelers.

  But then I let all of that go. To each their own, to each their own experiences, in their own time, on their own terms. Tourists and travelers, we’re all people.

  How do you share your travel experience digitally? Do you find it important to write about travel?

  I share to help myself process my experiences. As a photographer with a website, I naturally used my blog to share highlighted pictures and stories from my travels, but I tended to stay away from sharing simple stories of “here’s where I ate, here’s where I stayed.” I shared glimpses of what I saw, slivers of my experiences, bits of the bigger thoughts running through my head, all through the images of my travels.

  I think it’s important to travel consciously. If writing helps you be conscious about your experiences and helps you enjoy the moment, then yes, definitely. but that’s an independent decision.

  Will you share a favorite travel memory?

  My favorite moments tend to be the unglamorous moments. Everyone remembers the high points vividly, because these are the memories of travel glory that we tell around the campfire and the bar every time fellow travelers get together. It’s natural. But while those moments are easy to remember and like, they also don’t tend to have the biggest long-term impact on us. My favorite travel memories don’t come from the destinations, but from the journeys.

  An example: in 2008 I spent a couple months traveling through India, about half of it by myself without a guidebook or plans. I fondly remember a 28-hour train ride from Goa to Trivandrum spent blissfully napping on the top bunk in the non air-conditioned compartment shared with fifty other people, listening to the rails clink endlessly, sipping chai and eating snacks from the vendors that passed by, reading, daydreaming, and soaking in the experience. Although we were many hours late to arrival, I was a bit sad to step off that train and back into the city.

  Now that you have a full-time job and an upcoming wedding, do you still think about or plan trips?

  Of course. I think about trips large and small. I create mini-trips and mini-explorations in my own city. I enjoy a walk to a new part of the city, I steal thirty minutes to enjoy a park, poke my head in a church, stop and people-watch on a new street, take pictures of my life. And I think about the types of big trips I want to take over my life and create reasons to travel, ways to tie the big trips into the big parts of my life. Traveling for travel’s sake is no longer on my mind, but I find a way to consciously bring the spirit of travel into my daily life.

  What tips do you tell people thinking about traveling?

  1. Dream big, but start small. Build into the longer trips by trying smaller ones first.

  2. Try it on your own, at least once.

  3. Pack less than you need (force yourself to buy little things).

  4. Use a guidebook as a guide, not as a plan.

  5. Learn to be a good guest (in someone’s home, in their city, in their culture).

  6. Watch to see where people eat and follow them.

  7. Find something to enjoy and explore no matter where you are.

  8. Wherever you go, you always bring yourself.

  9. Travel is hard. It’s not meant to be easy.

  10. The ups and downs are what makes travel great. Don’t get too caught up in the highs or the lows, but trust that if you bring an open mind, heart and spirit, the good will make up for the bad.

  Chapter 24

  A NOTION OF HOME

  What is that feeling when you’re driving away from people and they recede on the plain till you see their specks dispersing? — it’s the too-huge world vaulting us, and it’s goodbye. But we lean forward to the next crazy venture beneath the skies.

  —Jack Kerouac

  BOULDER, COLORADO

  The snow is falling slowly (can it fall with speed?) on the mountains of Colorado. I’m staying at a friend’s cabin at 10,000 feet above sea level with a breathtaking view of 14,000-foot mountains. The warm fire (can it be cold?) is only bettered by Internet access. I open up a few websites and check out airfare to Australia, Chile and some Caribbean Islands.

  This is me, settled down. For a time.

  I splurged and I now have five shirts. This is the most significant change to my backpack, which I still live out of. I found a pair of fancy Ferragamo shoes at a garage sale. A picture of myself in a snazzy suit is on my Facebook page. Life no longer includes laundry in the shower. I have a cell phone bill.

  Although I still dream, my appetite for travel, for movement, is changing. I find myself filling my days volunteering for friends’ companies and challenging my imagination as I try and figure out what’s next. I think about home a lot. Home, for me, has become less of a place and more of a concept. What does it mean when “home” is a merely a concept? Should I be worried? After 20 months on the road, who am I now?

  These questions are never clear, their answers never complete. They are questions I have asked dozens of times before, and questions that I am sure I will ask again. They are less about staking out the ground of a definitive answer, and more like a compass, a series of thoughts that help orient me to my present moment, to help me to set the course for my next path.

  These days, my cravings are more in easy rhythms than in bit splurges. The only thing truly random in my globetrotting life is the selection of my music playlist. A single date is cherished but a second date is circled.

  I think about my goals. A short-term goal isn’t a bad habit; while the habit of short-term goal setting can perhaps turn into a problem. What are my long-term aspirations? Are they even relevant to me? How can I think creatively about them? How can my habit of short-term goal making interpenetrate into goals that will last through my lifetime?

  I am sipping a cup of strong coffee on a comfy couch, snuggled up to a fire and enjoying the rolling, mountainous view. This is more than home to me. Only, nothing is mine. It’s a strange feeling, an odd realization, when it really dawns on you that ownership of the material, man-made objects that structure your life isn’t really what dictates the feeling of “home.”

&nb
sp; In the end, the objects we own don’t have all that much to do with the greater world — that vast and alive amoeba that is un-owned, shared and yet somehow speaks loudly for herself. Tell a mountain during a storm what its name is. Tell a mother in despair how she looks. A story told from the outside will always remain just that, unable, even in glory, to ever compete with emotion and truth from the inside. Home. A feeling from the inside. A concept from the outside. Or is it?

  Is home where you are from or where you are meant to be? I should know to not explain life through British pop music. Is the world spinning around making exceptions in gravity for those that care to jump?

  Perhaps home is both jumping and landing with intent. I’ve traveled all around the world and have been grateful to meet the people I have met; have seen the places I have seen to have learned what I have learned. Perhaps now it is my turn to take that inner sense of home and paint it in material things. To create a home-base so that I may host others on their journey, returning the favor that so many have gifted to me. One can have a home and still embrace movement.

  Or, perhaps, I’ll never really land. Perhaps.

  Chapter 25

  TRIOMPHE

  I have found out that there ain’t no surer way to find out whether you like people or hate them than to travel with them.

  —Mark Twain

  PARIS, FRANCE

  It’s a picture straight out of a fashion magazine. The subway’s windows are open causing a stir of spring air — just strong enough to whip up the hair of the women on the train. Their bright lipstick creates the upper glossing to a slim and sleek summer look. Black skirt, high heels, and some bright rouge adorn the perfectly sullen look of a Parisian. The cigarette isn’t there, but you know it is. A classic style that everyone in the train, except me, of course, seems to have. They glance to the front of the train towards the absent camera, posed for their day. I squeeze the hand of my date and give a quick kiss — perfectly on script given, the scene. It is a gesture of affection that’s completely appropriate, expected even, for more than one person on that train. We’re not just watching the iconic photo shoot — we too are models, characters, within it. This is our stop. It looks exactly as I remember, having never been there. Perfectly foreign and strangely familiar.