I read a lot about travel. Other people's trips and journeys. Stories that combine personal elements of discovery with movement, with travel to some far away place where the cultural imperatives are different from those back home. And every once in a while I will come across that familiar story of the bad American tourist abroad. She or he will be described as poorly dressed, loud, arrogant. Incapable of uttering a single word in the native language. Demanding service, demanding entry, demanding perks that are typical in America but less abundant elsewhere. Snapping selfies, pushing into already crowded spaces.
This morning, once again such an essay popped up in the opinion section of the NYTimes. Every time I read these things, I try hard to remember all my encounters with Americans abroad. And maybe I have a knack for avoiding these horrible scenes of poor behavior, but in my experience they are rare. I seem to bump into Americans who are enthusiastic about being wherever the trip has taken them. They are mindful. They snap selfies, but rarely with one of those annoying sticks that puts the camera at a distance and impedes the flow of traffic.
The problem is, of course, that these days, there are crowds. Crowds of travelers to popular destinations. Venice or Yosemite. Giverney or the Grand Canyon. To say nothing of small islands, disappearing reefs and habitats that can't take the influx of eager visitors. It's not Americans abroad, it's all of us collectively creating crowds, destroying the peace on Barcelona's La Rambla and hiding the Mona Lisa behind heads of over-enthusiastic museum goers. We are all collectively responsible.
What to do? People have been dishing out advice for decades on how to be a better tourist. I have to say, it's stuff that applies to daily life as well. Why limit it to being abroad? Be deliberate in your choices. Be mindful. Be courteous. Listen attentively. Observe. Don't be pushy. Isn't this stuff you want to see around you, in your own neighborhood? Perhaps what's missing in our daily lives (hasn't this become obvious during the pandemic?) is a feeling of social connection, a responsibility to do well by others, to value the collective experience, to make small sacrifices so that others may have a chance at a good outcome. But for goodness sake, don't stop visiting places that are outside your comfort zone. It's far easier to learn humility when you are outnumbered by people who speak a different language, eat strange looking foods, have habits that don't mesh with what you're used to seeing back home. Seems to me that we all may do well with a mega dose of humility every once in a while.
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The collective experience. Let me come back to this now, because I was thinking about it as Ed and I drove up once again to the Fitchburg Family Pharmacy this morning, this time to get our flu shots.
I switched to this pharmacy a couple of years ago, liking very much its approach to serving the community. It's the kind of place where the pharmacist will tell you he hopes you'll feel better after you take your medicine. They'll talk to you about your experiences with the booster the next time you stop by. They're just nice people and they are about as close as you can get to having someone local be there with you, sharing a tiny bit of the day in all its small permutations. (I used to get that sense of community at Paul's cafe and then at Finca Coffee shop, but to be close to the people who sell and who come in and buy, you have to stay inside and Covid stopped that dead in the tracks.)
As I write this, I am fully aware of the ridiculousness of our lives at this moment: we get our dose of community by going to the pharmacy to get a flu shot! But the reality is that we here are not like Ghanaians in Hohoe (so social minded!), or Italians in Parma, or Bretons from Dinan. It's not easy to find groups of people congregating, or even pausing to exchange a few updates from our daily lives. (One curious feature of the new development is that every house has a front porch. And every front porch of an occupied house has at least two outdoor chairs on it. I have walked the neighborhood sidewalks now many many times, in great weather, at all parts of the day and I have never once come across anyone sitting in those chairs. Aspirational symbols of a life not lived.)
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It's another beautiful day.
You could never tire of them, even though I know we're nearing the end of this warm spell. September ends, October begins. We're moving ever so slowly toward the cold months. But oh, do I appreciate the pauses of sunshine and warmth! Outdoor weather! Cafe weather, don't you think?
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Snowdrop is here this afternoon. We have so many projects that are waiting in the sidelines! But there is no rush. The beauty of after school time is that it moves without a schedule, without must-dos. We read, we play. I take her home.
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Evening: the joy is in the quiet, the warm quilt thrown over our laps against the cool air that inevitably comes in each night now.
For now, to my small community of Ocean friends -- good night, with love.
