And of course, posing is a thing now - I’m guilty of it too. Yes. That’s me swinging out of a funicular in Lisbon. Advantages of going in a non-tourist season, I suppose. It’s the new “fun” associated with travel. We try to capture the experiences and all the fun.
In the scurry for the picture taking, I hope we don’t miss out on how the moments feels. The sea breeze on the face, the peacefulness of a view, the enormity and magnificence of a monument and the history behind it, the aroma as a dish is brought to the table, the look on our face as we take in the size of the sangria pitcher.
And yet, when I think back of travel experiences, I often find myself thinking of the people we interact with. Even when there is no “proof”. A local restaurant in the El Yunque forest, two decades ago, where the patron keeps sending drinks to our table. “We didn’t order more,” we tell him, only for him to shrug it off with a “drink, drink…”. We respectfully obey. Everyone else there is a regular, that is obvious. Soon the latino music gets louder, and the dancing begins. Young and old, everyone joins in, and three pina coladas later, when they ask us to join, we are more than willing. This is before smart phones and there probably is no signal in this remote place. So, while there is no “proof” or picture of the sheer joy of that evening, I am able to feel it today, and all the bonhomie, friendliness and the laughter that went with it. I am a guest in this beautiful tropical rainforest and my gregarious and generous hosts are sharing a slice of their joyful life.
In the midst of checking out all the attractions and taking in the very best a city or country has to offer, sometimes I will remember I am only a guest here. Somewhat through the grace of the locals. It is their space, their history, their life that we’re partaking in. Locals who may be fed up of tourists, locals who may continue to be helpful despite that. Simply because of the common thread of humanity that binds us.
A few weeks ago, we manage to get lost in the narrow alleys of Portimão in the Algarve region of Portugal. We notice a hair and nail salon with plenty of customers and decide to ask in there. No one speaks English. The hairdresser pops out, scissors in her hand, points to some streets and gives detailed instructions with many many hand gestures - right, left, a loop, a street to keep going straight, another left - we understand nothing. She understands that we understand nothing.
An old lady probably in her late seventies is leaving the salon, her hair beautifully coiffed. She also understands that we understand nothing. She taps my arm and gestures that she is going in that direction (I think). We decide to follow her. She smiles at us. She chats with us. I think she tells us that we need to walk slowly. We amble along slowly, up and down the cobbled streets at her pace. There is a certain sweetness in this procession.
She says a few things to me. I say a few things to her. We have no idea what the other is saying. My smile and words thank her for showing us the way. Her words are sweet and kind even if I don’t know what they mean. I think she looks at my dress with much approval, and then at my flip flops in confusion and mild disapproval. I admire her coiffed hair and nails, her sense of style, her beautifully polished leather shoes, and wonder if it’s hard to walk with them on the cobbled streets. She stops at a crossroad and shows us where we need to go. She tells us where she will go. Many words are exchanged in our walk, all we understand is the sign language and the smiles. The friendship is sweet and I am grateful that she is such a gracious host to us in her beautiful city.
As we travel through a country and its people, we are imbibed and held in the grace and culture of its people. Some years ago, my then energetic eleven-year-old and I explore Tokyo and take the metro. My kid has a brand-new umbrella that she loves and which she won’t let me carry. In her general excitement, and lack of familiarity with crowded public transportation, she often bops locals in the crowded metros with that same umbrella. Not a gouge-your-eye-out bop, but several harmless thuds. Each time I am aghast and about to apologize when each time, I notice the gracious Japanese bow down to her (!!) with a “sumimasen” (sorry/excuse me). “Wait, wait” I want to say each time, you really shouldn’t be the ones to apologize! I try to bow down quickly with my “sumimasen”.
Yes, my kid receives many bows and sumimasens, and I in turn try to return many bows and sumimasens. My bows are followed by glares directed at my kid, whilst muttering “that umbrella”, beneath my breath. My kid, mostly unaware, rather confused by all the bowing in this hard-to-bow, tight space, decides that this umbrella is now “famous umbrella”. We still have “famous umbrella”, and it continues to remind me of the politeness and grace of the Japanese culture and its people.
If I rack my brains, many stories will fall out, each reminding me that when I travel, I am but a guest in someone else’s country, and that someone else is allowing me to share their history and culture and ethos, and way of life. And I hope that I will always be grateful and respectful of that generosity.
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