I have loved traveling as long as I can remember, always curious about what’s just around the next corner. I have a memory from the age of eight, when my father pulled out a road map of the country to show his children where they lived in the world, of wanting to walk across Canada, which I finally completed much, much later in life, when I was in my mid-fifties.
I haven’t been much of a photographer of my travels over the years. For example, traveling with my daughter for two weeks along the west coast of the United States, she took 600 photos to my six. So, I don’t have many photos as tokens of remembrance. I’ve been prone more to journaling than photographing my experiences, but I see now how photos can make the memories of my travels richer. I’ve been slowly getting better at it.
How I travel has also changed over the years. In my youth, having never stepped outside of Canada until my early twenties, my goal was to bag as many countries as possible. The number of countries visited seemed to be a marker of sorts with fellow travelers – the more, the better.
It’s even easier now, with the Internet and the numerous traveling apps, and now that many of the international backpacking routes have been well established. One can literally jump from one country to another every day, booking hostels and buses in advance, only talking with other English-speaking travelers, and never struggling to communicate with locals to find a place to sleep or eat.
But much is lost in the travel experience by whipping through countries in a few hours just for the passport stamp and to systematically check off an item on a bucket list.
I was humbled during my trip to Latin America when I was in my fifties, where I met 22-year-olds who had visited far more countries than I have or ever will in my lifetime. Excited for them, I asked about their lessons learned from their experiences, but they responded to my question with blank stares.
Little is learned from simply racing from hostel to hostel, country to country, filling up a passport, posting selfies on social media, and taking in only tourist experiences.
When I look at my old journals, I see that for many of the countries I’ve visited, I haven’t made even a single entry. Although I received the passport stamps for those countries, I simply cannot remember anything about those places, or very little at best.
For example, my only memory of Luxembourg in my twenties is a conversation I had with a bank teller when I was exchanging Deutschmarks for Francs. I asked her if she spoke English and she responded, I should hope so. I majored in English literature at Oxford. A nice anecdote, I suppose, but I have no photos or journal entries, and I cannot remember any other details from the short four hours I spent in the country.
And for my part, I feel shame for this. We, who are so amazingly fortunate to be born in what is considered a wealthy country, with our decent wages compared to the rest of the world, have received such a gift to be able to afford to travel. Most people around the world can only dream of traveling even just beyond the boundaries of their communities. I need to be ever so grateful for the sheer luck of my opportunities.
I’ve concluded that the number of countries visited cannot equate with the richness of experiencing a single place over a longer period of time. Even in the city where I’m living in Canada, walking the same route for the hundredth time, I still marvel at something newly seen.
I’m trying to embrace slow travel – fewer places with more immersive experiences – such as with my several trips to the Iberian Peninsula to explore and walk the Caminos to Santiago de Compostela and my nearly annual trip to the Canadian Rockies. Those regular visits are more meaningful to me – there is always something new to see and learn.
I travel less these days, but for those few remaining travel opportunities still available to me in my life, I want to approach them without haste, and with immense gratitude and curiosity.