It's not about the places. It's about the people

What makes travel memorable?

By Trotternama

April 17^th, 2020

I would hesitate to describe myself as an intrepid traveler. The term suggests a certain heroic quality that I suspect I lack entirely. Like most sensible tourists, I have always preferred to avoid unnecessary complications. Yet circumstances conspired early on to thrust travel upon me, much as one might inherit an eccentric uncle's collection of butterflies—unwanted at first, but gradually becoming indispensable.

My father, a geophysicist of the old school, possessed one of those careers that required periodic disappearances to remote corners of the earth. During the long summer holidays of my childhood, I found myself accompanying him to places where his research demanded attention—oil reserves requiring assessment, rare metals awaiting discovery, dormant volcanoes in need of scientific scrutiny, earthquake zones requiring analysis and, one hoped, prevention. It was, I suppose, a rather distinguished way to spend one's formative years, though at the time it seemed perfectly ordinary. A cool father, as they say, with a decidedly cool profession.

Those remain among the most luminous memories of my youth.

Adolescence brought different adventures. I departed for studies abroad, and through a combination of student scholarships and various humble employments—waiting tables, washing dishes, operating tills—I managed to accumulate just enough funds to sustain myself in the sort of establishments favored by impecunious students. The hostels of Europe, America, South East Asia and India became familiar territory, reached by the cheapest possible airlines and the most uncomfortable trains available. Solo travel, almost exclusively, conducted in accommodations that charitable observers might describe as basic.

But at eighteen, one feels magnificently invulnerable. Everything seemed to possess that peculiar intensity that later disappears so completely, a quality one might describe as possessing the unmistakable scent of teen spirit. Inspired by accounts of Scott, Amundsen, and Jacques Cousteau, I had formed the notion that travel was not merely desirable but essential—my raison d'être, as it were.

Adulthood, as it tends to do, altered the arrangements considerably. I discovered that my tolerance for student hostels had diminished rather dramatically over two decades. Fortune, however, had provided me with work that necessitated residence in various cities—New York, San Francisco, London, Bangalore, Singapore, and Sydney—a circumstance that I came to regard as compensation for the loss of youthful resilience.

Much of my recent wandering has been dictated by professional obligations—conferences, meetings, and the like. Yet each year I have made it a point to convert all accumulated leave into at least one expedition to unfamiliar territory. This habit has consumed virtually every penny of my savings over the past decade, but the alternative—remaining stationary—seemed somehow worse.

Travel, when self-financed, possesses a remarkable capacity for financial obsolence

It's not about the places. It's about the people

The apprentice years

In the beginning, the mere prospect of discovering an unknown place provided sufficient justification for departure. The pursuit centered on accumulation—adding new destinations to an ever-lengthening list. Over time, however, I began to suspect that this approach possessed certain limitations. The act of collection, while satisfying to the methodical mind, could become curiously hollow when pursued as an end in itself.

For professional writers or photographers, naturally, such travels form part of their livelihood. But for those of us driven by simple curiosity, the endless succession of monuments and landscapes can assume an almost mechanical quality, the repetitive nature of sightseeing becoming apparent over time.

European cities, for instance, tend to follow a predictable pattern. Each possesses its Altstadt—the ancient heart with cobblestone streets and a central marketplace, around which modern districts have accumulated like sediment. Every city displays its particular architectural signature. While most European construction falls into recognisable categories—Baroque, Rococo, Classical, Neoclassical, Roman—each nation adds its own variations. Germany offers the Bauernhaus, that archetypal chalet. France presents Gothic grandeur in the Musée du Louvre, Notre Dame, and Sacré-Cœur. Amsterdam provides windmills and tulip gardens with almost mechanical precision.

Initially, such discoveries produced genuine excitement. The museums, with their Renaissance masterpieces and Post-Modernist collections, possessed an almost overwhelming richness. Yet the experience proved curiously cerebral rather than visceral. Monuments were duly photographed, gardens methodically explored, but nothing seemed to establish the sort of connection that transforms a place from mere geography into memory. For the enthusiastic amateur, the process of traveling had somehow become more significant than the actual experience of arrival. City centers began to blur together, museums revealed similar contents, and castle tours acquired a depressing uniformity.

The persistence of small things

When I attempt to recall those journeys now, the famous bridges and celebrated paintings have faded into insignificance. What remains are the trivial incidents: boarding the wrong tram in Amsterdam while searching for Anne Frank's house, becoming thoroughly lost in rain and snow. Walking the Champs-Élysées on Christmas Eve, sampling mulled wine and crêpes from sidewalk vendors amid the cheerful chaos of holiday crowds. Discovering the most extraordinary dark chocolate at the entrance to Neruda Street in Malá Strana. Experiencing acute claustrophobia while ascending the Duomo in Florence. Riding the Schwebebahn in Wuppertal and completely forgetting to validate my ticket. Taking lunch at a café in Dresden after a morning's exploration of the castle. Encountering a Pakistani taxi driver in Koblenz who offered to transport me to Burg Eltz and back for twenty euros less than the standard fare, ensuring I would catch my return train—this act of generosity sealed by the sharing of a cigarette in the rain.

Such moments, utterly inconsequential in themselves, have proved remarkably durable. The small stories, the chance encounters, the brief conversations and modest purchases—these have outlasted all the carefully planned cultural experiences. The little keepsakes and the walks through rain-soaked streets.

Indeed, any location can become memorable if one encounters memorable people there. Places may boast pristine beaches and magnificent architecture, but memory preserves what one actually did on those beaches, and with whom one explored those splendid halls of the Pitti Palace.

Nowadays, apart from professional obligations, I rarely travel alone. An expedition to Antarctica might still tempt me to solitude, but for ordinary leisure I prefer companionship. The difference between creating memories with another person and merely accumulating gigabytes of digital photographs has become quite clear to me..

Solo travel certainly possesses its merits—the freedom to follow unexpected opportunities, to make decisions without consultation, to move at one's own pace. I enjoyed these advantages for many years. Eventually, however, I grew weary of the routine: waking alone in anonymous hotels, dressing mechanically, consuming coffee without conversation, and announcing to myself, "Right then, time to inspect another castle."

With a companion, experiences seemed to embed themselves more deeply in memory. Even unremarkable places became sources of genuine pleasure. And if travel lacks enjoyment, one might reasonably question its purpose.

I am not, by profession, an explorer. For me, travel serves primarily as entertainment and cultural education. The necessity of accommodating other people's preferences and schedules has made me considerably more receptive to unfamiliar possibilities—experiences I would never have chosen independently. The obligation to adjust to fellow travelers has opened me to new ideas, newer possibilities, and different choices. Many of my most interesting discoveries in recent years have resulted from someone else's enthusiasms rather than my own careful planning. Things I would never have attempted on my own.

They say travel broadens the mind and expands one's horizons. At this stage of my life, I find such enrichment comes more from human encounters than from architectural appreciation. This expansion of understanding is now driven more by people encountered than by the buildings one happens to view.