I think back to trips I have taken, years ago, decades. I think of the benches and chairs I slept upon; of the meals I ate, by pointing at words written in a different language; of people that I met, who came and went in a heartbeat, saying or doing profound things, never to be seen again.
Those were days of travel with backpack, by thumb or foot. A destination in mind, but how to get there and when to get back being somewhat hazy. I think back to the hitch-hiking days when, unbeknownst to my partner and I, the driver was past the limit on his drug of choice, but we survived. I remember being pickpocketed, not once but twice for good measure—once on a back street in Yucatan—while looking at birds and architecture along my meandering route, the other time in a cold dark train station in Italy. Neither of the offenders meant to do me harm—it was all business to them and an experience for me to look back at, learn from and to relate to others with a half-grin.
I have memories of a young tan man, in the Mexican hotel I was staying at, selling opals to tourists. Were they real, I wondered? Of Canadians, spending a winter away from their Alberta prairie jobs, trying to sell their car to get enough pesos to make it to the Mardi Gras. About the girl, about my age, that was smuggling drugs deep into Mexico, of all things! Her bulky peasant’s dress hiding the hidden bulges underneath.
My mind goes to trips in the mountains, with backpack and sleeping bag and fishing pole. Sometimes alone, other days with friends. Where are those friends now? Some have disappeared, others are gone, but they stick in my memory like a smear of pitch on my pack from leaning against a tree. All were young and tan and slim and full of life. All of them. All were attracted, like me, to the mountains and streams and freedom.
Later, I traveled by pulling a diminutive trailer–a small bed and stove being its amenities. It kept out mosquitoes too, at least some of them. I could pull it off the backroads and find abandoned logging spur-roads near unexpected meadows. They were great places to set up camp.
As the years pass my vacation choices continue to change. Recently, I have taken cruises, one to Panama and the other to Alaska. The beauty of those places and the stops along the way stick with me. Cruises are designed to provide travel experiences in a planned, orderly way. Food is always available; entertainment is scheduled hourly, covering a wide range of interests; and, if a person wishes, a short, guided excursion can be booked. The cruise lines even guarantee to wait for returning excursionists if an unexpected event slows their return to mother-ship. There are few worries. Little can befall this type of traveler.
My experiences make me ponder the nature of travel, how it comes in packages with different wrappers and what its ultimate purposes are. Here are my conclusions:
Travel has given me a chance to see different places, different people and different ways of viewing these things we call our world and our life. My early travels, with their anarchistic flavor, with set beginning and end but with the middle cloaked in uncertainty, served me a purpose. They allowed me to experience and negotiate culture shock. Don’t know where to stay the night after a train ride from Calais to Paris?—no worry, something will materialize. Not sure about getting from Los Angeles to Calexico by thumb, no worry, other than the ticket picked up for hitchhiking on a freeway onramp. Not understanding the train’s operation in Austria, no worry—a kind elderly lady using a smattering of English and lots of hand signals helped.
As I have gotten older, my desire to have more control over my vacations has increased. My wish for a comfy bed and pillow at nighttime is strong. But, I wonder, is something lost with the yearning for certainty and comfort? Perhaps the opportunity for spontaneity, the chance for serendipitous adventure, and the allure of freedom?
Europe has a long history of encouraging its people to explore. Hostels were set up in towns to give travelers an inexpensive night’s resting spot. Huts were established along trails in the Alps for the same reason. Both were based upon the notion that travel is important, healthy and something to be encouraged. To meet other people, to experience other perspectives, to view the beauty of nature–all were believed to be beneficial to everyone.
Now, at my age, I struggle when planning to travel. The old part of me, my knees, back and hips, want a nice bed and a cruise itinerary. The young part of me wants a backpack, extended thumb and blank calendar. I appreciate the opportunity for shipboard 24-hour buffets but hope that hostels, alpine huts and helpful Austrian train travelers will always exist.
