3. De Botton, ch. 1 - 3

"...the difference between what we imagine of a place and what can occur when we reach it..."

Old Paree

I first came to Paris the year I turned 18. I was here for a mere ten days before I left, yet I vowed to come back. Those ten days were some of the most beautiful days of my life. I came to Paris with dreams and imagination of what the city may hold. The beautiful women with scarves and thin lips, the smoky cafes and wooden bars stacked with ashtrays and tumblers of whiskey, the sky, a yellow wash over the blue of the city, huddling warm atop snake curving streets and paths. The city of Paris, the city of love, the city of endless light and possibility. It was the Paris I'd read, seen in pictures and movies, the Paris manufactured out of optimistic imagination to create the longing, the anticipation, De Botton spoke of in his first chapter. This was the Paris I expected. And this was the Paris I lived for those ten days. Those days went by like a dream, one of sepia tones and muffled jazz sounds, one of grey horizons and blossoming sunrises, set against the drooping skyline of the perfect Paris. I watched this world, amazed at its beauty, more real than any picture, true to its hype in every sense. The women, tall and laughing, gaps between their teeth, hair uncombed and tumbling, were so beautiful. The cafes, squeezed between corners and cobblestone walks, filled with men in suede jackets gesticulating grandly over cigarettes and wine, and old women watching the world walk slowly by, were as Hemingway may have described them, as I imagined they may have been fifty years ago in the age of romance. The sky, falling white to blue to glowing purple sat over the city like a bonnet, snug and cotton soft, its soft wisps of air tucked within. This Paris... it was unreal, like everything I'd heard and seen, but alive. They were ten days I'd never forget. They were ten days that made me vow I'd come back one day.

When I came back, the Paris I'd imagined and known was still there, but buried under a heavy yellow din, of voices and lights. The women were beautiful, but flawed and real, their elegance gone, replaced by an uneager simplicity and khaki dullness. The cafes, no longer smoky and mahogany, were packed with children and unhappy couples, families in glasses poring over maps, too well-lit rooms of cold carafes and day old rolls of bread. The sky was thick, a faded stonewashed denim blue, that blinked incessantly with the circling beam of the Eiffel Tower every night after dark. It was Paris, it was still Paris, but the veneer had faded, replaced by a bright shade of reality, and at first, I was as disheartened as Des Esseintes, wondering if my imagined version of the city was superior to its reality, wondering if it may have been better to stay at home with Hemingway than to try to relive the dream. But eventually, I began to love this new city. It wasn't the same one I'd come to or dreamed of, it wasn't perfect and it wasn't like the picture, but it was real, it was the city underneath its face, the Paris one lives rather than visits. It was different, but just as beautiful, perhaps better, truer than any dream. Des Esseintes feared the difference between what he imagined of London and what may occur when he finally lived it. And he may have been right. There is a shocking difference between what one thinks or dreams and what the real living experience of it is. But his decision to let his fear win over himself, his decision to stay within his imagination in lieu of jumping into the real living experience of the city, kept him from seeing perhaps the most important part of London. The image of a place is made up not only of what we think but what we live and experience. One cannot know a place without the two. So maybe there is a difference between the dreamy Paris of my youth and the real Paris of my life. But it is only through both that I can say with confidence that I finally know, see, and love the city, both the beautiful parts and the knobs. It may not be as pretty as the picture, but its wonderful all the same.

reflectionThroughout the first three chapters of the book “The Art of Travel”, Alain de Botton emphasizes themes that truly encapsulate what it means to travel, and more so what it means to be a good traveler and travel writer. De Botton writes in a manner that paints a vivid and detailed picture of his surroundings, using words that evoke visual imagery to transport the reader to the places of his past. However, what most intrigued me about his writing is that he also posed philosophical inquiries into the mind of the traveler, asking questions such as how we are often told advice on to “where to travel to, but we hear of little of why and how we should go”. He then goes on to emphasize that travel is essential to the Greek phenomenon known as eudaimonia, or “human flourishing”. I would have to say that I agree with this statement, because during my time abroad, I have experienced this so-called “flourishing” and have seen my way of thinking change as I get more exposed to global customs and traditions and gain these invaluable experiences. Through my travels, in addition to my time in Prague, I’ve gained more firsthand knowledge in this short period of time than I have in the last three years of college. I feel that my mind has been opened to try new things and be open to new experiences, and I can’t thank my travels enough. 

De Botton also emphasizes a theme that I think most travelers have experienced throughout their time traveling: the all-too common phenomenon known as disappointment. We, as travelers often spend much time researching a place we want to visit and end up hyping up our place of destination so much in our minds that it gets to the point where the expectations we set for ourselves are so high, that they are indeed impossible to match or compete with. I think its part of the all-too common “traveler syndrome”, which also expects an air of authenticity to wherever we go, and if we don’t find it, we are also supremely disappointed. As it stands now, we as travelers are a bit high maintenance, I believe, and De Botton does a very good job of capturing these things. He then also points out in a manner that is easily relatable, how many tourists (well, for the sake of this post, I will say travelers) insist upon only following things written on their well-researched itinerary, and not open themselves up to experiences a bit more outside the box. More humorous though, I think, is the reaction of travelers when things stray just ever so slightly from the planned course of action. I think we can all take a lesson out of de Botton’s book and realize that travels are for personal growth, not rigidity.

Reading this made me realize about the mental steps that are involved in traveling. Its interesting to read Botton’s approach at explaining traveling through different stages. Through anticipation, expectation, and realization. I believe I am one of the travelers that came without any expectations because no one I knew has ever visited the Czech Republic before. I think having no expectations was a positive thing for me. However, for Paris, I had a plethora of expectations. I saw movies and heard about how wonderful Paris was supposed to be. I expected this fabulous world that would fulfill all my expectations. However, to my dismay, Paris was not so great.

To be fair, Paris was fun and pretty. But it was just not everything that I had hoped for. And I believe that the only reason why I was so disappointed was because of my high expectations for Paris. I realized that the best way for traveling is to go with an open mind without any expectations. Sure, it will be inevitable to hear stuff about the place you are going to, but try to go without expecting too much. Going to Spain was a great experience for me. I heard that it was beautiful, but I had no real expectations. And I went to Barcelona and Madrid and absolutely fell in love with Spain. I think going some place and finding it unpleasant is really hard to do. Although I did not LOVE Paris, I still enjoyed my time and wouldn’t have left after a day. Because with each culture and country, it’s important to be patient and optimistic about your remaining stay.

I plan to study abroad this summer again and I’m going to go with an open mind and just hope to experience new and exciting things. I never overly plan anything so I wont be disappointed. But I’m sure I will have a lot of fun traveling around Asia. I’ve always wanted to go to Japan and Thailand. So hopefully I will go and have a wonderful time.

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.

Bound, a bookstore in PragueIt is five o’clock in the evening. I walk through the glass doors off Wenceslaus Square and stand before an impressive room filled with books. The scene before me, although foreign, is familiar. People roam through the aisles carrying gym bags, sporting after work attire, or wearing oversized down coats like my own. Books face outwards on stands, greeting their customers rather than hiding behind their spines. Picturesque mountains, eager kangaroos, endless roads, expansive prairies, New York City skyscrapers, sparkling glasses of wine, and quaint European alleys decorate each volume. While at home titles such as Let’s go Europe, I Am A stranger Here Myself, Prague!, Highways, Quest for Kaitiakitanga, and My French Life can be read on any of the covers, here I can make out words like Cestovat (Travel), Prohlídka (tour), Evropa (Europe) and even Spojené státy americké(USA). As I venture further into this oasis of wanderlust, I notice huge coffee-table-style books with coliseums and deserts on their faces, promising me “the wonders of the world” for prices in the range of 300kc ($15). Clusters of couples sit together with piles of travel books by their sides, jotting down notes on the backs of business cards, scribbling facts between appointments in already packed calendars and writing furiously on any scrap of paper that’s available. I, follow suite, and pen and paper in hand, head to the English language section to begin to devour a budget travel Eastern Europe book. Even before my arrival in Prague I loved, (or rather, am still obsessed) with travel books. I devour them. I read them, and then some otherwise under-utilized-unknown-somewhat-photographic part of my mind memorizes them and files the information in what is perhaps my brain’s best attempt at organization. When I should be remembering mathematic formulas, or where I last put my phone and wallet, I, instead, can easily recall how far away Krakow is from Prague, what bus line to take, how much money it costs, and what the ten “least discovered” things to do in both cities are…as recommended by a Mr. Frommer, a Mr. Steves, and a college student writing for Let’s Go. My infatuation with the notion travel is repulsive. Alain de Bottom writes in her book, The Art of Travel that “we are familiar with the notion that the reality of travel is not what we anticipate” (11). For me the anticipation or reading of a travel book, is, itself a reality. I whether in Amherst, New York, and now Prague, read travel books to understand where I am, where I am going, and where I want to go. While de Bottom writes that, “it is easy for us to forget ourselves when we contemplate pictorial and verbal descriptions of places” (19), for me its not about forgetting, but discovering who I am in the context my own surroundings and in the surroundings of others. I agree with de Bottom’s belief that a “plane’s ascent is an exemplary symbol of transformation” (38). However, (and perhaps this stems from my own reality of previously limited travel experience) I believe this transformation can occur without the plane. Bottom states then while abroad she finds herself focusing on the exotic and “absurd intense reactions provoked by such small (and mute) foreign elements” (75). Yet I, like her, agree in “how rich in meaning details may be” (75). These details, my dorm’s stain glassed doors, Prague’s slippery cobblestone, the curvature of European streets, and the familiar environment of the travel section of a bookstore, are what make traveling, in my mind, an endless exploration of discovery. A discovery that begins by reading the spine of a neatly bound book.

Koch Gallery, Between WorldsWhy is this course titled The Art of Travel? Is de Botton’s book an inspiration, a guide? Maybe the de Botton’s philosophy and that of this course line up. But there is very little controlled pedagogy at work on a blog populated by posts from students scattered around the world. We are ideally learning the art of travel, or at least depicting the experience of travel. But why? I’ve wondered about the purpose of this blog since I’ve started to place myself within it and I’ve realized that people use it for different reasons. Some want to rant, some to make sense of what they are seeing, some to communicate with others and find or speak to a common feeling. Alain de Botton is trying to describe how he and other experience travel and if there is an art to it I believe mastery has something to do with how one sees themselves in different contexts.

Heathrow RunwayAgain, I write late. I’ve been trying to adjust to the new city and just, yeah, doing orientation stuff for the past 24 hours. Jet-lag has been horrible as I’m sure it has been for everyone else. There’s also a flu “epidemic” in Germany right now, so I’m trying to get as much rest and hydration as possible to keep my immune system up. Anyway, I’ll start writing this blog entry seriously now and really try and keep up with everyone else since (A) I need to get back into academic mode despite classes not starting here for a few more days and being new to the city and (B) naturally, I want to keep a good GPA and not ruin it because of the difference in the study abroad program dates. Okay.

Reading and discussing the Art of Travel by Alain de Botton last semester for the introduction to going abroad class that I discussed in my two earlier posts that were posted was really memorable and somewhat confounding. We also watched a bit of the film adaptation for the film and that certainly had a different tone to it. The humorous dry tone, once given a face and a setting, grew much less pretentious and condescending than I felt the printed word was. This definitely was how I grew fond of de Botton and grew inspired to continue reading the rest of the book.

I remember reading (and watching) the first chapter last semester and, mostly I’d like to discuss how my readings have changed since being abroad and having read a bit more of the book. As I’ve only been here an extremely short while, though, and am so ridden with culture shock(s), it seems impossible for me to be true to a comparison. Perhaps for a later post, I will be able to do a comparative reading more closely. It also helps that I kept a blog on this website last semester so I can refer back or try to tap into exactly what I was feeling about in and outside of class in relation to the readings. In any case, though, a particular quote that struck me, as written by de Botton goes, “[w]hen feeling sad at home, I have often boarded a train or airport bus and gone to Heathrow, where, from an observation gallery in Terminal 2 or from the top floor of the Renaissance Hotel along the north runway, I have drawn comfort from the ceaseless landings and takeoffs of aircraft” (33). Here, of course, de Botton is being self-reflexive, using the Baudelaire he had just mentioned as a lens of analysis. To me, originally, the notion of this seems absurd, pretentious, even escapist. Why would anyone just dream of leaving all their problems behind? It seems pointless and limited, immature. Furthermore, an adult, for the most part, is not capable of imagining themselves in another place to such a degree that their other problems seem minuscule. But this, of course, is where I am wrong about my initial impressions about de Botton’s work.

De Botton’s imagination, as well as my own, and I’m sure many others’ do not require an extended, romanticized, unrealistic placement of the self in another world to function properly. Since going abroad, I am not realizing that it isn’t the problems that one dreams to escape. Rather, it is simply the ability to work within and negotiate a new set of problems that allows the others to seem alien. Worries replace worries, but in a refreshing and vibrant way. And being exposed to a new setting, if even for a brief amount of time, can often give one an entirely new perspective with which to view the world that they had just left for a time. The part about travel that’s so interesting, then, is the implicit return back home. And certainly not to rouse the longtime debate of “tourist” vs. “traveler,” but as far as I can tell, both parties conceive of some spot in the world as their home and with that home comes the problems of home. Then, now just beginning a four month stay in another country, I already have been able to gain some clarity on my life that I hadn’t had before. No, I still don’t know what I want to do “when I grow up,” but the fact that this notion of “grown up” is treated entirely different here has helped me a great deal, and given me a bit of comfort. Similarly, differing ideas about financial burdens, a grand notion of happiness, and nationalism, so too, have helped me a bit with the way I deal with problems by the same name at home. I wouldn’t call it escapist, or immature, but rather a way to broaden one’s horizons.

Tongli: Tongli River TownLeaving everything behind and accepting whatever comes my way. It sounds scary on paper doesn't it? As I read de Botton's The Art of Travel an interesting quote pops out at me: “If our lives are dominated by a search for happiness, then perhaps few activities reveal as much about the dynamics of this quest –in all its ardour and paradoxes – than our travels.” Perhaps its because I don't travel very often. Or maybe its because I, as is everyone else, am just trying to get an “understanding of what life might be about” outside of daily drudgery. The idea of traveling is a romantic one. Completely changing my environment and fully accepting new situations and experiences is an art.

It's strange how I can feel so comfortable in Shanghai; how easily I can say goodbyes to my parents and friends. Traveling sets a spark in me that nothing else can. Somebody once told me that life is all about the connections you make with other people. The experiences you share and the memories you create. The way you affect others is like a medium into immortality. What better way to accomplish this than by traveling? By sharing experiences with people you would never otherwise encounter. I chose to come to Shanghai without knowing a single person. As much as I love my family and friends, I needed to travel and put myself out there. Just to see what happens.

As I type this sitting in room 503 in NYU's off-campus dorms listening to a friend enthusiastically explain his dreams about an asteroid I can't help but wonder what I would be doing if I hadn't traveled. I would labor through my daily routine and my zest for life would lay stagnant. Instead, I'm here. I am sitting on a couch in a foreign city staring at 7 students I met a week ago. I am seeing the world and I am put in a situation that I would not be in if I hadn't traveled. I have met people and seen things on this side of the world that would otherwise only exist in daydreams. I suppose traveling does make me happy. “I see my path, but I don't know where it leads. Not knowing where I'm going is what inspires me to travel it.”

My favorite theme that De Botton discusses in his book is the theme of what and why things are deemed "Exotic." He describes how the term "exotic" has been traditionally attached to things that appear more colorful. They've also been attributed to aspects of a certain culture in which the practice is completely normal, but because it strays so far from the norm of what the traveler is used to, it is different, and therefore exotic. We can see this idea of exoticism in the way that I notice many of us travelers view aspects of Argentine culture as exotic: un beso on the cheek, tango, dark features, the shh sounds in the way that Argentines pronounce their l's and y's, the wine, etc. I notice here that there are many things that often make me step back and think "oh, that's different and damn near exotic." One of which is the practice of drinking mate. I call it a practice because there's almost an art to drinking mate here in Argentina. Maté is a hot stimulant drink made from herbs and dried leaves and searved with hot water. You drink it with a metal straw-like fixture that is called a bombilla that you place inside the gourd after the water is poured inside. Mate being revered as exotic to me doesn't just stem from the fact that it's different or colorful, more so it's the fact that people here are so open and friendly about drinking and sharing their mate with you. I decided that I would learn guitar while in Argentina considering I only have classes twice a week and need to occupy my time doing meaningful things. I decided to go the botanical gardens one day and what do you know? There were two guitarristas there playing music. I initially decided to go speak with them about the idea of them teaching me how to play during their free time and conversations led into some deep spiritual Argentine folk music which led to a family joining us, requesting songs and dancing. The mother of the family asked the guitarristas if there was anyway she could re-pay them for their tunes, and they both said simultaneously "Mate!!" The woman prepared the mate diligently with the grounded leaves and hot water kept in the thermos and passed the mate to the guitaristas. I would have thought nothing of it until the guitaristas passed the mate to my friends and I. I looked at him and asked if he was sure and looked at the woman for affirmation that it was ok for me to my lips on her shiny bombilla. She laughed and asked if I had drank mate before and told me that it was the "la bebida de amistad." Or, the drink of friendship. Even re-hashing the story I still can't believe that the woman was so eager in sharing her mate with a couple of strange, sweaty American kids, but the culture in Buenos Aires as the days go on are demonstrating to me that their culture is a very sharing one, which still is very exotic to me. I still can't seem to work the pics but here's a pic of Mate

I was interested in Alain de Botton’s chapter on traveling places. I find it so ironic how traveling places—planes, trains, busses—and the corresponding terminals for these places—airports and other kinds of stations—can be so depressing. Strangely, these dull and undesirable traveling places are the very essence of travel, yet “travel”, which is usually conveyed very romantically, often entirely overlooks them. To me, it seems as if the idea of “travel” has evolved to ignore the actual process of traveling. Travel agencies, brochures and commercials all advertise travel as the destination, when literally, travel is only the journey from one place to a destination. Personally, when I am asked my interests, I always include travel. Yet after reading Alain de Botton’s writing, I have realized that I actually hate to travel. I find airports cold and boring, I hate having to sit still in busses or in trains, I hate being stuck in small and dingy quarters, and I am afraid of dying in an airplane or in a car accident. For me, it is a struggle to sit still even for fifteen minute car rides. Over my winter vacation, I found myself sitting on my couch all day because I live in suburbia, and I would rather rot at home then jump in the car for even 20 minutes. This is why I thrive in the city. I love to walk, but I hate traveling places. In NYC, I take the subway rarely and I walk whenever possible. When reading “The Art of Travel”, I was able to relate much of my travels to Argentina to several of Botton’s excerpts. In particular, the theme of traveling places and loneliness was something that dominated my travels. Although I was on a flight to Buenos Aires that many of the NYU students were taking, I knew no one. Sitting, waiting, alone in the airport, this traveling place seemed to emphasize that I was about to embark on a four month journey alone. Kids who already knew each other from school sat chatting and laughing. Although I have no trouble making friends, I couldn’t help but worry just a little bit that my abroad program was going to be clicky. When traveling, the hours roll by slowly and painfully. After waiting to get through customs you wait to board the plane, and after waiting for the plane to take off you wait for the plane to land. Still, I find the worst part of it all is waiting to unbuckle your seatbelt and get off the plane once you’ve actually landed. Traveling can be nothing more than excessive time to think about your loneliness and boredom. During my flight to Buenos Aires, the lady sitting next to me was of little company because we did not speak the same language. Only two hours into the flight, I felt as if I was the only person alive on the entire plane…it was completely silent, as everyone around me appeared to have overdosed on sleeping pills while my dramamine and complimentary wine with dinner did nothing to diminish my insomnia. Clearly, I am a pessimist when it comes to travel. Surprisingly, this is what I want to spend my life doing. By the way, I was unable to create images today because they weren't loading. SO, here is a link to an image of a lonely airport. http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3208/2881186671_57fbf69948.jpg?v=1222165378