Beyond Wanderlust
I'm not typically one to write rebuttals or responses; I believe this is my first. My queue of drafts and writing ideas is quite long, and I try to stay focused, but I am inexplicably drawn to this cause. When I first started reading Agnes Callard's New Yorker piece titled The Case Against Travel, I thought, "Wow, this is ridiculous; I should respond." However, my pragmatic voice intervened, reminding me of the pressing matters awaiting my attention. And yet, when I sat down to write, this paragraph happened. So, here I am.
Remarkably, Callard's first erroneous assertion comes just two sentences into her exposition when she proclaims, "Nearly everyone likes to travel." Now, I don't know where Callard is from, nor am I interested enough to find out, but in the town of 30,000 people in Kentucky where I'm from, many folks are content right where they are — and that's no bad thing, for Kentucky is an amazing place, I dare say Callard should travel here to see for herself.
Callard then calls upon authority for her argument, creating a motley crew of anti-travel advocates, including G.K. Chesterton, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Socrates, and Immanuel Kant. I would've appreciated the inclusion of a contemporary figure who experienced the advent of modern air travel.
Can we genuinely trust Kant's perspective on travel when he never ventured beyond the confines of his hometown? Granted, he barely lived into the 19th century, so it's understandable that travel was less commonplace before the emergence of automobiles and airplanes. As for Chesterton, he passed away in 1936, just three years after the Boeing 247 took flight — a plane that carried a mere ten passengers and could cross the country in 20 hours. (https://airandspace.si.edu/explore/stories/evolution-commercial-airliner).
After presenting a few cherry-picked quotes that hardly support her argument, Callard sets her sights on tourism, a topic I anticipated she'd aim at. She says, "At home or abroad, one tends to avoid "touristy" activities." I find myself asking who exactly this "one" refers to. If "one" avoided such activities, touristy places wouldn't exist. Could it be that "one" refers to someone like Callard herself, who despises seeing new things? Or perhaps "one" represents an individual who can't bear witnessing something that we, ordinary folks, appreciate, like the wonders of the Uffizi? Oh, the horrors!
Callard further claims, "Although people like to talk about their travels, few of us like to listen to them." Maybe Callard's friends aren't good storytellers. I eagerly anticipate hearing about my friends' travel adventures. But I get it; who wants to hear about someone's journey when we can discuss much more exciting things like what we do for work, the political environment, or the current thing? Forget regaling me with tales of the oldest orphanage in Europe; I'd rather hear about the Excel sheet you created last week and its impact on quarterly metrics. Isn't that enthralling?
The question of definitions emerges as a crucial point in Callard's argument, and I concur that clarity is essential. She begins, "To explore it, let's start with what we mean by "travel." Socrates went abroad when he was called to fight in the Peloponnesian War; even so, he was no traveller." Unfortunately, but unsurprisingly Callard's use of Socrates as an example ends there, but I'll continue for a moment.
Socrates died a while back, about 400 years before the birth of Jesus. Living in the Golden Age of Athens — a time of unparalleled philosophical achievements — he had little reason to venture far from the philosophical center of the world. Understandably, he lacked the natural urge to explore. Moreover, Socrates, known for his profound wisdom, cherished the Delphic aphorism "know thyself." Could it be that those who embrace travel have a deeper understanding of themselves than Callard gives them credit for — or at least know themselves better than Callard knows them?
Numerous paragraphs lie in wait, yet I must confront them one by one, so let's continue. Callard proceeds with her "argument" in The Case Against Travel by drawing upon the work Hosts and Guests, where it is stated that "Tourists are less likely to borrow from their hosts than their hosts are from them, thus precipitating a chain of change in the host community." She concludes, "We go to experience a change, but end up inflicting change on others."
Firstly, I question the factual basis of this claim. Monitoring societal transformations over time proves far more feasible than peering into the souls of individuals and measuring the extent of their inner transformation. Secondly, sharing and adopting ideas is a feature of travel, not a bug, no matter the direction or measure. And thirdly, I challenge the use of the word "inflicting," as if the hosts have no choice in the matter.
Selecting a favorite part from Callard's piece is challenging, but the following excerpt merits consideration:
“For example, a decade ago, when I was in Abu Dhabi, I went on a guided tour of a falcon hospital. I took a photo with a falcon on my arm. I have no interest in falconry or falcons, and a generalized dislike of encounters with nonhuman animals. But the falcon hospital was one of the answers to the question, “What does one do in Abu Dhabi?” So I went.
I'm puzzled. When I travel, I seek experiences that align with my interests or explore new avenues that may hold potential appeal. I can't fathom why someone would willingly engage in activities they dislike because it's the "thing to do." I could say more about this paragraph, but it's a better use of your time for me to continue.
For reasons unbeknownst to me, Callard persists with her ill-conceived excursions as examples:
Why might it be bad for a place to be shaped by the people who travel there, voluntarily, for the purpose of experiencing a change? The answer is that such people not only do not know what they are doing but are not even trying to learn. Consider me. It would be one thing to have such a deep passion for falconry that one is willing to fly to Abu Dhabi to pursue it, and it would be another thing to approach the visit in an aspirational spirit, with the hope of developing my life in a new direction. I was in neither position. I entered the hospital knowing that my post-Abu Dhabi life would contain exactly as much falconry as my pre-Abu Dhabi life — which is to say, zero falconry. If you are going to see something you neither value nor aspire to value, you are not doing much of anything besides locomoting.
Next, Callard calls tourism "locomotion all the way down." Her fictional traveler says, "I went to France." Then she, or perhaps one of her band of "one" or "we," asks, "O.K., but what did you do there?" "I went to see the 'Mona Lisa," to which she judges:
That is, before quickly moving on: apparently, many people spend just fifteen seconds looking at the "Mona Lisa.
I'd be more sympathetic toward this argument had I not just read a story about this critic's falconry excursion despite having no interest in falconry. Do as I say, not as I do.
The next bit in Callard's How to Plan a Regretful Trip takes us to Paris, where she asserts her superiority by abstaining from gazing upon the Mona Lisa or visiting the Louvre. Instead, she "walked from one end of the city to the other, over and over again, in a straight line." Why does Callard insist on torturing herself with these trips? She should channel her inner Kant and remain within the confines of her home, where she can avoid both walking and the risk of encountering renowned artworks.
Fortunately, Callard relinquishes control, turning to writer Walker Percy. Regrettably, the arguments fare no better. The first example is a tour of the Grand Canyon, where "Unable to gaze directly at the canyon, forced to judge merely whether it matches an image, the sightseer "may simply be bored; or he may be conscious of the difficulty: that the great thing yawning at his feet somehow eludes him." Another instance is presented to illustrate the potential disappointment that can accompany travel.
Callard misses the mark again. Her examples merely highlight humanity's penchant for nurturing unrealistic expectations about the future. I could furnish a litany of non-travel examples featuring individuals who anticipate that their "next job will be amazing," or that their "next school will be far superior," or even that "next year will bring immeasurable improvement." Some individuals are chronically dissatisfied, unable to derive enjoyment regardless of the breathtaking splendor of the Grand Canyon. Alas, travel alone cannot remedy such a disposition.
Callard's aim is misdirected. Instead of directing her critique towards travel, she would be better served by examining the concept of wanderlust. Socrates was astute in proclaiming, "Why do you wonder that globe-trotting does not help you, seeing that you always take yourself with you?" Travel is not an escape — but that doesn't make it worthless.
She continues her uphill battle, having cut off both arms and legs, which is respectable. But she does so again by illuminating her ineptitude as a traveler. "During my Paris wanderings, I would stare at people, intently inspecting their clothing, their demeanor, their interactions. I was trying to see the Frenchness in the French people around me. This is not a way to make friends." Valid. Staring at and inspecting people like zoo animals isn't featured in How to Make Friends and Influence People. Next time, she should consider engaging in conversation (I'd avoid the topic of disdain for travel if I were her).
Next, she boldly claims: "The single most important fact about tourism is this: we already know what we will be like when we return." On the one hand, I concur with Callard —some individuals are undoubtedly ill-suited for travel. I am, of course, referring to Callard's aforementioned "we."
She asserts, "A vacation is not like immigrating to a foreign country, or matriculating at a university, or starting a new job, or falling in love." To some extent, I concur with this sentiment. If one approaches travel in a manner akin to Callard's, then one shall undoubtedly become jaded, much like Callard herself. However, if one travels "for the purpose of art, of study, and benevolence," even Emerson himself wouldn't object.
A particularly intriguing psychological insight arises from Callard's discourse:
“If you think that this doesn’t apply to you — that your own travels are magical and profound, with effects that deepen your values, expand your horizons, render you a true citizen of the globe, and so on — note that this phenomenon can’t be assessed first-personally.
It's tough to argue with that. By extension, you shouldn't meditate, read, write, or do anything else that might "deepen your values" or "expand your horizons" since you can't assess the change firsthand.
Callard implores us to redirect our thoughts to our friends embarking on a summer adventure, "In what condition do you expect to find them when they return?" If Callard were my friend, I would anticipate no profound insights emerging from her falconry-filled, complaint-ridden sojourn (although the art of flânerie can offer valuable lessons if approached with the proper mindset).
Thankfully, I have witnessed friends return from their travels enriched by the experiences they have garnered, albeit not through some magical metamorphosis, as Callard mentions, but in small doses that compound over time.
Next, we are presented with yet another fallacy, a false dichotomy. Callard proposes:
One is forced to conclude that maybe it isn’t so easy to do nothing — and this suggests a solution to the puzzle. Imagine how your life would look if you discovered that you would never again travel. If you aren’t planning a major life change, the prospect looms, terrifyingly, as “More and more of this, and then I die.
Here, the options presented are travel or do nothing, as if travelers only know how to or want to travel. I suggest that if most individuals were stripped of the opportunity to travel, they would explore other avenues of interest, delving deeper into their passions rather than succumbing to a state of despair.
Agnes Callard, I love philosophy, and I love traveling (forgive my clichéd inclination). I'm well aware of the philosophical warnings, particularly those articulated by the Stoics, whom I hold in high regard, about the limitations of travel. Seneca said:
“Are you surprised, as if it were a novelty, that after such long travel and so many changes of scene you have not been able to shake off the gloom and heaviness of your mind? You need a change of soul rather than a change of climate.”
Indeed, travel is neither a means of escape nor a panacea for life's challenges. The key to a good life can be found in any location. Thus, whether traveling or not, one should approach each endeavor with a sense of purpose.
