21 Apr Déjà vu and the Delights of Travel
Standing in Brussels’ La Grand-Place, I look around at the ornate Gothic buildings and shiver, as if someone poked a finger into the base of my spine. Wafts of memories, many hazy at this point, fill my mind; I’d call it déjà vu, but I have, in fact, been here before.
© David Mathies
Like many before and after, I came to Europe after college graduation, seeking adventure instead of an office. Not that the latter was an option; 1991 was a year of recession, and journalism jobs were few and far between (and I refused to accept anything but). I arranged a U.K. work visa through BUNAC, an organization that specializes in student travel, stashed graduation money from my parents in a British bank and took off on an open-ended frequent flyer ticket, also a gift from my family — who hid their concern appropriately.
Heading to England on your own doesn’t sound too exciting these days, does it? I know high school students now who take archaeological internships at Machu Pichu and go skiing in New Zealand on family vacations. The world seemed much less accessible back in the early ‘90s; the Internet wasn’t an option yet, social networks were more than a decade away and there was no such thing as unlimited long distance. I phoned my parents once a week, using a credit card, from the payphone in our residential hostel’s hallway. Friends sent letters full of post-graduate ennui; in comparison, my secretarial work at Senate House (where George Orwell had once worked!) and bartending gig at the University of London student union seemed downright glamorous.
Once my visa ran out, I hit the Continent with an InterRail pass and the money I saved, intending to travel as long as I could. I made it another five months, sleeping in hostels and trains, hitchhiking in France, Ireland and Scotland, making new best friends along the way. Again, this is not a unique story; I see it all the time on my Facebook feed full of twentysomething travel bloggers who now have the ability to document their experiences live. All I had was a journal, which I still own. Reading it now presents a painful and hilarious encounter with a woman with plenty of dreams, a lot of ambition and equal amounts of anxiety. I wish I could go back in time and give my younger self a Xanax.
Yet through all the angst, I marveled at what I was seeing: grand cathedrals, master artworks, frites with mayonnaise. I set aside my guidebook early in the process, preferring to plot my course according to serendipity. I skipped most of Germany, for example, after a February foray into Munich proved too chilly. Instead, I hightailed it back down to Italy, where an off-season ramble on the Cinque Terre led to a night in an old woman’s house where she fed me one of the most delicious soups I’ve had in my lifetime. I let myself be led by my instincts and interests, no matter how much they deviated from the typical itinerary.
Last summer, I saw a friend from that time period, a fellow journalism student whom I had met in a park in Barcelona (the hostels were full and neither of us knew where to go next – remember, no Google Maps back then!). Although two decades had passed since we last saw each other, the connection still held; think Richard Linklater’s “Before Sunrise/Before Sunset” series, with a different outcome. We reminisced about those few weeks we traveled together, with both of us coming to the conclusion that even a six-month solo stint in Europe back then had the capacity to have a big impact on life going forward.
When I stand at La Grand-Place now, the déjà vu comes not only from seeing the statue of St. Michael on the Town Hall or the waffle vendors in the square. It comes from the sense of wonder that traveling brings, the gratitude that I feel toward loved ones who know that letting me go is the best way to ensure that I’ll come back. It’s the adult version of the girl who set out with a journal to see the world; I hope she never loses the ability to hear her heart.
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