On Travel and Curiosity
Asked recently why I love to travel and why I chose to continue a vacation trip after falling and breaking my shoulder, I concluded that it’s due to my lifelong companion—curiosity. I believe the proverbial cat had a heck of a good time before curiosity struck its deadly blow. When I travel, curiosity and my equally inquisitive husband are my companions. If we had returned home after my fall, I would have missed out on an incredible musical spectacle at the Halifax International Tattoo, two delightful ceilidhs—Gaelic musical gatherings—, the best lobster roll ever, walking in mud at low tide in New Brunswick, and tasting the famous COWS Ice Cream on Prince Edward Island. And the very sympathetic and chatty hairdresser in New Glasgow, Nova Scotia, who gave me my first shampoo in days!
Even on the briefest of trips, such as a drive to town, curiosity often leads me to take a new route, to seek out a road I haven’t yet tried. I might chance upon a javelina dashing across the road or a scattering of ocotillo in bloom that I wouldn’t have seen on a different path. On occasion, curiosity about what’s beyond the next curve on a hike has led to an unexpectedly long and exhausting day. But also, to some surprising and amazing sights.
The memories I have of our travels are more a patchwork quilt than a sequence of journals or organized photo books. Despite my best pre-trip intentions, I find myself allocating all my energy to each day’s experience, and generally fall into bed at the end of the day, too exhausted to formally record our adventures.
Who could argue with the first president of The Detection Club, G.K. Chesterton? The Detection Club was formed in 1930 by a number of British mystery writers, including Chesterton, who introduced us to Father Brown, the crime-solving priest, Agatha Christie, and Dorothy Sayers. We travel with a list of must-see places, but we have most fun when we’re wandering and stumble upon wonderful places and people.
We’ve been fortunate to see Big Ben and the Eiffel Tower, to visit the Trevi Fountain and the Acropolis, and other sites the world deems culturally and historically significant. Yet the memories on that patchwork quilt that give me the most pleasure are of serendipitous encounters that no amount of planning with a tour guide could have provided. Like the shopkeeper in Mougin who gifted us with the strawberries he normally tossed, because he knew we Americans had never seen anything to equal his fruit. And the elderly man in that same town who offered some impromptu translating help over dessert choices, and later invited us to visit his nearby tomato farm and share a bottle of homemade Marc (the French counterpart to Italy’s grappa—a strong, often homemade fruit brandy). Or the man with an adorable and patient little dog, who chatted with us for nearly half an hour about places to eat and see in his neighborhood of Buenos Aires. Or the Scottish woman at a sheepdog trial deep in the countryside who remarked on the remarkably fine weather as we stood dripping beside her.
"The traveler sees what he sees, the tourist sees what he has come to see."
Gilbert K. Chesterton
"We’ve been fortunate to see Big Ben and the Eiffel Tower, to visit the Trevi Fountain and the Acropolis, and other sites the world deems culturally and historically significant. Yet the memories on that patchwork quilt that give me the most pleasure..."
When we travel, I try to learn something of the language of our destination before we arrive. French, Spanish, Italian, fine. German, not so easy. But Greek? Harder! I’m a bit of a parrot, so in Athens, we left our hotel each day with a new Greek word or two taught to me by our friendly receptionists—Good morning, thank you, good evening, and the like. I asked how to say “Maybe tomorrow” so I could respond to the barkers at cafés we passed each day on our explorations. That got a few chuckles from the weary workers—one who remembered and greeted us the next day!
On our travels, we explore the cuisine of the country we’re visiting, wander through botanical gardens, crane our necks at the architecture, and seek out local music. Often, we’re unsure exactly what’s on a restaurant menu. Is that yet another way to prepare duck? How could something so prosaic as boiled greens be so delicious?
Back home, we often try to cook some of what we’ve tasted on our travels. However, I could never recreate the deliciousness of that Thanksgiving feast—fresh fish and grilled vegetables, we had in a beachside ramada outside Zihuatanejo, Mexico, or the empanadas we devoured from a street vendor in Buenos Aires.
Saint Augustine wrote that “The world is a book, and those who do not travel read only a page.”
I plan to keep reading and writing new pages in that book, traveling, and feeding my curiosity, as long as I am able.