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Wanderlust stems from our desire to escape our messy lives
By Wan Lixin |
October 15, 2009, Thursday
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THE first day back to his kindergarten, my son's class were asked where they had been during the eight-day holiday.
Many gave destinations at a fair distance from their homes.
But during the holiday my son was enjoying himself immensely outdoors with a friend of his, at his grandparents' home in suburban Shanghai.
"In despair I could only said that I went to Dongchang Cinema," he recalled bitterly.
In that antiquated establishment he saw "McDull," a Hong Kong and Chinese mainland joint-production cartoon about a kung fu piglet that is intended for adults. My son insisted on seeing it because the cinema regularly offered him discount coupons through the kindergarten.
My son's ordeal reminded me of one of my own experiences as an elementary school student. The teacher asked each of us to do a certain number of good deeds during the winter vacation.
I was eager to oblige, but found it hard to define a good deed. I was tortured with self-doubt during the vacation.
When I grew older, I learned of a Chinese precept to this effect: "If you wish to make known the good turns your have done, it is no longer good."
Children are mostly carefree and happy because they know how to stay in the moment, without having to resort to external aids. Yesterday and tomorrow mean little to them.
But adults are trying hard to give them programmed, institutionalized happiness: Disneyland, Happy Valley, tours domestic or overseas.
Next to cars, a tourist destination is the best symbol of a good life.
During the eight-day holiday, tourist revenues nationwide exceeded 100 billion yuan (US$14.6 billion), an increase of almost 30 percent compared with last year's "golden week."
This exuberance of wanderlust is fairly recent.
In rural China a considerable portion of elderly people have never ventured outside their home county all their life, and travel is still associated with hardships and uncertainties.
What a contrast to the modern-day perception of travel as gratifying, delightful, and relaxing, which stems from the myth that money can buy any kind of satisfaction.
In fact a tourist experience is heavily dependent on the tourist's education, memories, judgement, and prejudice.
I always believe the highlight of a trip to Hangzhou is walking the ancient trails in the wooded hills.
But in our weekend escape to Hangzhou this April, we found the foot of the hills inundated with cars. We almost missed our train because traffic around the Tortoise Pond had come to a standstill.
We felt more like refugees as I dragged my bag to the station, with my wife and son trailing far behind.
A tour usually tastes better when recalled after sometime, but best when anticipated.
The actual tour, however, usually means poorly insulated and ventilated rooms, over-crammed agenda, long queues, and crowds - which all confirm our ancestors' wisdom.
And there is this modern invention of a tourist guide, who loses little time to suggest detours, must-sees, and must-haves, or Zhang Yimou's spectacular "Impressions."
Purged of the many inconveniences in memory, our tour blurs into a delightful self-delusion.
Essentially this apparent pull of different (often deliberately) places, landscapes and culture reflects more on our restlessness, our impatience with our own surroundings, which are in a mess.
A tourist destination has come to represent all that is delightful in life.
By getting away from our mundane preoccupations, we leave our mess behind.
The trouble is, the initial strangeness and thrills quickly give away as we become adapted to exotic conditions. The pleasure of a tour can only be short-lived, affirming the observation that to be everywhere is to be nowhere.
We are making a mess of our home with money-making, and the corrupting influence of money is plaguing tourist destinations.
Many gave destinations at a fair distance from their homes.
But during the holiday my son was enjoying himself immensely outdoors with a friend of his, at his grandparents' home in suburban Shanghai.
"In despair I could only said that I went to Dongchang Cinema," he recalled bitterly.
In that antiquated establishment he saw "McDull," a Hong Kong and Chinese mainland joint-production cartoon about a kung fu piglet that is intended for adults. My son insisted on seeing it because the cinema regularly offered him discount coupons through the kindergarten.
My son's ordeal reminded me of one of my own experiences as an elementary school student. The teacher asked each of us to do a certain number of good deeds during the winter vacation.
I was eager to oblige, but found it hard to define a good deed. I was tortured with self-doubt during the vacation.
When I grew older, I learned of a Chinese precept to this effect: "If you wish to make known the good turns your have done, it is no longer good."
Children are mostly carefree and happy because they know how to stay in the moment, without having to resort to external aids. Yesterday and tomorrow mean little to them.
But adults are trying hard to give them programmed, institutionalized happiness: Disneyland, Happy Valley, tours domestic or overseas.
Next to cars, a tourist destination is the best symbol of a good life.
During the eight-day holiday, tourist revenues nationwide exceeded 100 billion yuan (US$14.6 billion), an increase of almost 30 percent compared with last year's "golden week."
This exuberance of wanderlust is fairly recent.
In rural China a considerable portion of elderly people have never ventured outside their home county all their life, and travel is still associated with hardships and uncertainties.
What a contrast to the modern-day perception of travel as gratifying, delightful, and relaxing, which stems from the myth that money can buy any kind of satisfaction.
In fact a tourist experience is heavily dependent on the tourist's education, memories, judgement, and prejudice.
I always believe the highlight of a trip to Hangzhou is walking the ancient trails in the wooded hills.
But in our weekend escape to Hangzhou this April, we found the foot of the hills inundated with cars. We almost missed our train because traffic around the Tortoise Pond had come to a standstill.
We felt more like refugees as I dragged my bag to the station, with my wife and son trailing far behind.
A tour usually tastes better when recalled after sometime, but best when anticipated.
The actual tour, however, usually means poorly insulated and ventilated rooms, over-crammed agenda, long queues, and crowds - which all confirm our ancestors' wisdom.
And there is this modern invention of a tourist guide, who loses little time to suggest detours, must-sees, and must-haves, or Zhang Yimou's spectacular "Impressions."
Purged of the many inconveniences in memory, our tour blurs into a delightful self-delusion.
Essentially this apparent pull of different (often deliberately) places, landscapes and culture reflects more on our restlessness, our impatience with our own surroundings, which are in a mess.
A tourist destination has come to represent all that is delightful in life.
By getting away from our mundane preoccupations, we leave our mess behind.
The trouble is, the initial strangeness and thrills quickly give away as we become adapted to exotic conditions. The pleasure of a tour can only be short-lived, affirming the observation that to be everywhere is to be nowhere.
We are making a mess of our home with money-making, and the corrupting influence of money is plaguing tourist destinations.
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