great expectations

Allain de Botton’s, “The Art of Travel,” illustrates the many ways that we attempt to enhance the advantages of being in a foreign place. From our earliest anticipations, to the way we absorb our surroundings; to our often desperate attempts to claim ownership over what we see, travelers are consumed by the desire to maximize their experience. De Botton’s book moves chronologically through the trajectory of these impulses, beginning with the expectations we contrive far in advance of actual travel—and most often without a concrete basis in reality.

After describing the long-awaited sandy beaches and reclining Palms that he imagined were to have curative effects on his dour disposition, De Botton admits that Barbados was quite different to what he had in mind. He writes, “We are familiar with the notion that the reality of travel is not what we anticipate…that reality must always be disappointing.” (11) De Botton quickly amends his statement to say that rather than call this discrepancy a disappointment; it might be more appropriate to consider it as merely different. But in my opinion, the original shock such “differences” effect on travelers can only be categorized as disappointment—even if the disparity is one of improvement.

campers

I have always had a difficult time escaping my expectations. Like de Botton, I become fixated, obsessed even, with my notion of a place and on the type of experience I will have there. Months prior to departure, my time alone is filled with day dreaming, (in truth, mapping out my spontaneous adventures and romantic encounters in precise detail) reliving my favorite images over and over until they seem more fact than fiction. This seemingly innocent habit only leads to heartbreak, however, even if only temporarily so.
I recall once having planned a trip to Ireland which included backpacking and hostel-going—the general roughness I typically attribute to hippies with dirty hair and bulky luggage, from which I generally distance myself and my three piece Hartman tweed set. But for economic reasons it seemed that I was going have to pack my tie-dye sheets and tambourine, and smile wide as I sang “This Land is Your Land” along the road. After months of snide remarks about hippies, I had actually purchased a fringe top for myself, and was overwhelmed with excitement about all the adventures I’d have hitchhiking, and all the mountain-men I was to encounter in the hostels. In the end, however, the group I was traveling with decided they’d rather throw down a little extra for B&B’s than travel for six weeks in the same pair of underwear. Of course, I was devastated. Now that my friends had acquiesced to my original desires, I didn’t want them any more. What about my mountain man? What would I do with my fringe top?

I was torn to pieces over the whole thing, and when we arrived at the first B&B I still hadn’t gotten over the image of me with dreadlocks. I looked around at the elderly crowd, plush beds with fancy pillows, and the scrumptious buffet of fresh fruit, eggs, sausage and scones, and thought to myself—“elitists.” It didn’t take long at all for me to adjust, however, and to begin enjoying the country, in spite of my accommodations. And though I was certainly able to put my flower-child dreams aside, I cannot deny that what I felt there that first day was nothing less than pure, simple, disappointment.