A Grain of Sand

Travel is for people with no imagination.  That's an outrageous statement, I know.  I can't take credit for it, either, and that's probably a good thing, because on the few occasions I've said it aloud, mostly in jest, no one has been amused.  I read that anonymous quote somewhere many years ago, and it's stuck with me ever since.  Until very recently, I hadn't met anyone who thought it was even remotely funny.  (Kudos to my friend Lin, who gets it.  Also to my sister, along with apologies for not remembering that she laughed heartily many years ago when we first shared this joke.)  In fact, the one consistent reaction I get to that comment is defensiveness.  That's probably because I know a lot of well-travelled types.  I guess they don't like the suggestion that they might be lacking in imagination.
I'm well aware that not many people share my point of view.  They must sit in the company of good story-tellers and conversationalists much more than I do.  Or maybe it's me.  Yeah, it's me.  I don't enjoy listening to people talk about their travels.  For many years, when I was broke and bitter, I didn't want to hear other people chatter about where they'd been, what they'd done and who they'd met, etc.  I was stuck in the same place for a long time, and it wasn't for lack of curiosity or a sense of adventure that I didn't just get up and go somewhere to satisfy those longings.  My material circumstances prevented it.  That was the reason, plain and simple.
I admit that my disinterest in people's travelogues is a personal issue and colours my point of view, but I've done some travelling  in the recent past, and I still feel the same way.  I do my best to keep my stories to myself, and save them for venues like this little web of mine, but sometimes I find myself saying something because I'm an actor and writer who wants to be heard.  I open my mouth just to say Hey, look at me!  I've got a tale to tell, too.  That's when I've succumbed to my bad habit of comparing myself to other people.  Covert one-upmanship is not my idea of pleasant chat.

For those fortunate enough to be able to satisfy their wanderlust, how can they not feel humbled by the grandeur, beauty, joys and perils of our diverse world?  And what about gratitude?  Maybe they are humble and grateful, but it doesn't always show.  Arrogance and gratitude don't happen together.
If someone illustrates a point of conversation by relating a story of what happened to them in an exotic location, I enjoy listening, because it's about what they think and feel, and not where they've been or what they've done.  Those sort of worldly conversationalists are employing the writer's rule of show, don't tell.  But sure enough, someone else will always come up with a supposedly related anecdote about some banal event set in a far-away land, as if the location should render their lack of original thought more notable.
Of course travel expands a person's horizons. Travel is a very effective, in-your-face shortcut to profound experience and knowledge.  A person would have to be quite dull and stupid not to learn from vastly different situations and surroundings.  That's probably one of the main reasons people travel.  But just because someone has the wherewithal to go abroad, it doesn't mean they're especially deep or introspective.  I've met some deadly-dull, superficial people who travel a great deal.  Or maybe they don't know how to tell a story well, or haven't got a handle on the art of conversation.
Plain facts bore me.  I prefer to talk about insights and observations.  Great minds talk about ideas, average minds talk about events, and small minds talk about people.  (I'm not quoting Eleanor Roosevelt to suggest that I have a great mind.  In case you haven't noticed, I like to talk about other people a lot.  But I'm trying to change that.  Really I am.)
So how about all the people with rich inner lives who haven't had access to the fast lane of meaningful and fascinating experiences in travel?  Isn't it possible for smart, sensitive individuals to have a mind and soul as wide as the sky without the expeditious advantage of travel?  I sure hope so.  For many years the only place I could tour was my imagination.  My imagination has most surely saved my life at times.  It's almost done me in, as well.  Travelling through inner space can be lots of fun, or a total bummer - just like real life.
When I've had the good fortune to stand in awe before some spectacular scene in a foreign land, I'm reaping  the rewards for having nurtured my imagination at home, in good times and bad.  Let's face it, it's a lot easier to be wonderstruck in a strange land, simply because it's unfamiliar.  A truer measure of someone's sensibilities would be if they felt that same sense of wonder while shopping for groceries.  That's a tough call for anybody, no matter how much they love the world and themselves in it.  But a person who's capable of that interests me far more than someone who's been to New York twenty-two times and seen at least 3 Broadway plays each time and then tells me all about it as if I should be gob-smacked with their accomplishments.  Aargh!

My friend, Doe, who has a special gift for paranormal experiences, recently discovered she could fall into a trance on the subway and end up travelling through inner space within minutes of boarding the train.  Listening to her describe the visions that appear to her fascinates me more than someone telling me they've been to Chartres Cathedral.  Unless someone who's visited Chartres has had a deep, personal experience they wish to share with me, I don't need to hear anything I don't already know or can easily google. With enough time and money anyone can hop a plane and/or train and visit Chartres, but few people can fly the subway the way Doe does.  (Doe thinks it's the steady rhythm and vibrations of the train moving along the tracks that induce her trance-state.  I agree, especially after recently learning how to listen with my entire body.  So I've been trying to fly the subway myself.  I'm not there yet.  I guess my body still needs some fine-tuning.)
Some people are just plain luckier than others, karma notwithstanding.  That's why I've learned to appreciate the poor and the sick, mad men and women, loners, fools, and clowns, the very old and very young, and any other marginalized or disenfranchised folks who, by virtue of living on the fringes, are unable to fulfill their cherished dreams.  Thoreau referred to this as living a life of "quiet desperation."  (Although for truly marginalized individuals, it's not always quiet.)  But if one digs deep enough, beneath the despair and longing is a personal treasure trove of imagination.  Sometimes that's all a person has.  Those are the people that truly fascinate me the most.  Although it's very sad that they can't live out their dreams, I am moved and beguiled by the way they live in them.
- G. P.