The Joy of Travel

Observations of America: The Joy of Travel

This is the last in my series of blogs on observations of America. For those of you who are intrepid travellers you will have noticed how sedate and unadventurous my travel is. This raises a rather interesting issue.

In order to truly experience a place should I be sleeping under bridges, travelling by mule, and eating foraged dirt with vagabonds?

Or, is it legitimate to be stay in hotels with names like Poshknob Suites, and only talk to people who wear nice shoes? Is this simply armchair travel with wheels?

I have often been amused by travellers’ commentary of New Zealand which seem to be almost exclusively based on time spent in pubs. Now call me narrow minded, but the NZ pub is the last place I would expect to find anything meaningful in terms of culture, stimulating conversation or even down-to-earth chumminess. The NZ pub scene is largely empty (literally) and its ridiculous to suggest that pub frequenters in Hokitika are any more real or down to earth than latte drinkers in Ponsonby. Unless by down to earth you mean drunk. I can say with great certainly that I have never had an interesting conversation with someone who is drunk (not that all pub patrons are drunk, but you get my point).

Yet, meeting locals in pubs seems to somehow imbue travel writers and poets with a rosy glow. I suspect this has much to do with their own predisposition towards what Homer Simpson calls ‘learning juice’. In my experience, social intercourse in pubs is usually limited to middle aged men (their wives quite sensibly somewhere else) blaming the world’s problems on the demise of club rugby.

Surely to appreciate a place’s people, you can do better than that.

No, for my money, if you want a real feel for people, go to where families are. Interestingly, on our recent holiday abroad, Mrs Bain and I slipped into our swimming trunks and spent a few days in Puerto Vallata, Mexico, which amongst other claims to fame, is where the Love Boat used to visit. As it happens we stayed in the old part of town where the beach was predominantly frequented by Mexican families. Observing families at play was both joyful and enlightening and our interactions personal and pleasant.

Which brings me to food and accommodation. Street food sounds very glamourous. Trust me, it isn’t. Saying street food is like saying toe jam. It’s certainly cheap – I wonder why that is? Superior ingredients, hours of preparation, cooked to perfection? Although edible, Hepatitis chicken on a stick isn’t really my idea of a good time. And quite frankly, I find sit down fare a much better place to savour local cuisine.

Likewise accommodation. Cheap accommodation means crappy location and even crappier conditions. Expensive accommodation means great location and sperm free sheets. Average accommodation (which is where Mrs Bain and I stay) is always exciting as expectations are either exceeded or crushed. Air B&B has added a new element to the mix which I call ‘lotto’ accommodation. You might get really lucky but generally you are disappointed, especially when the owner is there and won’t stop talking during The Chase.

I won’t say too much about Backpackers as I’m 56 and they are exclusively frequented by twenty three year old euro’s called Sven and Heidi who are travelling the world on two minute noodles.

Which brings me to Bill Bryson. Of the travel writers I follow, I really like this man’s travel style. He doesn’t ever seem to sleep in a gutter and his culinary preferences are typically British (even though he thinks he is American, which he is) – a ham sandwich and a cup of tea.

Bill’s travel style is to Womble about observing much and talking to few, night time activity more about a book than burlesque. Plaque reading seems to be his main tourist activity – and I love him. He is a traveller after my own heart. An observer of everything.

Richard Alexander Bain
self confessed softie