The Wayfarer

This is an era of travel. If you want to be cultured, broadminded, thoroughly educated, you travel. And escaping across the continent or overseas has never been easier or more popular. Day or night, the roads that crisscross the country are lined with lights. People are always going somewhere.

Recently, my husband and I took a road trip from Maryland to Tennessee, and as the miles and hours ran on, I wondered what places—exotic, comfortable, or dingy—all those drivers around us looked toward over their steering wheels. I believe that many of us, whether we’re on a business trip or a vacation, don’t enjoy the journey part of traveling, although we look forward to the destination. Traveling can be uncomfortable; it means to be on the way to somewhere, to be in limbo. We are in a hurry to get that on-the-way part done and to make ourselves feel as much at home as we can while we’re en route.

On most American highways, you can’t drive through empty countryside. Every mile or so along the open road, you pass ugly blue, red, yellow, and green signs pointing out the gas stations, chain restaurants, and hotels that dot the roadside over and over, for the convenience of the multitudes who pass. As we sped along the endlessly unrolling road through Virginia and Tennessee, I felt disappointed; I couldn’t help thinking that the uniqueness of every new place we passed was diminished by this speed and these identical stores planted in concrete.

We are so eager to shorten the space and time between destinations that we seem to have sacrificed place—and our ability to be aware of the place we are in. C.S. Lewis, a great walker of the English countryside, writes in Surprised by Joy about the pleasure of experiencing the “quiddity,” the essence or flavor, of a place. If you stay somewhere–in a certain city, a house, a field, or a patch of woods–long enough with your senses sharp to its details, you will take in this flavor. Those memories you have of the feel of your grandmother’s house, or a church, or a concert hall from childhood; the vivid colors of places, recalled by a smell or story that strikes you by surprise; these are your vital connection to a place.

It has been a common theme among certain modern writers that physical place, the place you are in, matters, in the same way that time, the now moment, matters. It is easy to walk wearily around familiar places, blind to their details, not suspecting that, as Tony Hiss writes, “Everything around you has a question inside it” (“Wonderlust”). Many of these modern writers, like Wendell Berry, Walker Percy, and T.S. Eliot, warn that people who do not know how to be somewhere, to live where they are and embrace the present place and moment, are more than likely nowhere, essentially more dead than alive.

But drawn by globalizing forces, we are trying to be at home everywhere and are in danger of losing awareness of anywhere. I think we have done this because we dislike the vulnerable feeling of homelessness; and to recognize a place for what it is means admitting one’s alienation, one’s position as a stranger there, perhaps both physically and spiritually. But I believe that the person who is confident enough in the destination that lies behind or ahead can find pleasure in the journey.

You can learn to like those reminders of what it is to be a pilgrim, a wayfarer gathering impressions, with home always as the point of reference. Part of the pleasure in traveling is experiencing the flavors of each place and savoring their difference from the flavor of the place you call home. It may even help you better distinguish from a distance the quiddity of home, which a pilgrim will treasure that much more when he or she arrives.

Is it wrong to travel and to accommodate travelers with 70 mile-per-hour speed limits and identical McDonalds and Comfort Inns scattered from Maine to Florida, helping us to ignore where we are? I only know that if any such thing as a home exists on earth, it isn’t found by smoothing away distinctions of place and abolishing the discomforts of travel. To be at home everywhere is to be at home nowhere.

This doesn’t mean you should avoid traveling. It means you should travel with awareness of place. Travel the rough country roads instead of the interstates; and travel with the reminder that to travel is not to be home. 

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4 thoughts on “The Wayfarer

  1. Beautiful meditation. Now get on the back roads and experience some of the real country there! 🙂 Especially if you follow the road map “scenic route” notations, you can drive through some amazing places, and if you’re not in a hurry you can stop and savor some of them.

  2. Two roads diverged into a wood, and I — I took the one less travelled by and that has made all the difference. 🙂

  3. This is why I loved camping when we traveled. A few times, my family made a big cross-country trip and camped all along the way instead of staying in hotels. Though the main reason was economical, it really made the trips memorable by allowing (even forcing) us to notice and experience the changing countryside across the West.

    It takes time to notice where you are – time to look around, time to go in a little diner instead of McDonald’s drive-through, time to stop and read the historical markers or have a picnic on the mountainside. It also takes a willingness to give up control, to see what’s there instead of following your own predictable plan. I think these are the reasons we don’t travel this way often. But even though my family only had the time to take such a journey two or three times in my lifetime, I remember them much more than any other trip or place I’ve traveled through.

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