Being in a foreign country doesn't necessarily mean being out of control. I know many happy people who plan their trips so thoroughly, read so many travel guides, memorize maps and phrases in other languages so carefully that they rarely have a moment of being completely at the mercy of strangers. I am not one of those people. I have the tendency to dive into things a teeny bit under-prepared. Ty and I decided not learn Portuguese before going to Brazil. I think he thought it would make it more exciting, and I was too caught up in my plans for Spain to care about a different language. I think we were both a bit cocky about being able to pick it up quickly. I happened to fly home from Spain on a Portuguese airline. I have a vivid memory of sitting on that flight, listening to the safety instructions and not understanding a single sentence. That was just one of many travel-moments that made me realize the foolishness of my arrogance.
Now, I can't honestly say that I begin all of my trips without worries. I spent the night before traveling to Europe by myself for the first time in tears. Often, in those nights before a new adventure, I fully realize how little I know of what I'm getting into and I have a few hours of panic. But that doesn't ever convince me to prepare for the next time. You see, us Field kids were raised to be sure that we can handle anything that comes our way. I've got this self-assurance buried so deeply by my parents, grandparents, and aunt that it's hard for me to imagine what could up-root it. But, I think more importantly, they also taught me that something being scary is not a good reason not to do it. Probably the most important things in life are scary as hell. Without a doubt, travelling (at least the way I tend to do it) is one of them.
There's not much that makes me feel humbler than traveling. To begin with there are the language barriers. In China, I frequently told waitresses "To use the potty" when I intended to say "Thank you." In France, I've had to buy tampons explaining what I needed by saying things like "Once a month there is a lot of blood for a woman and she needs things for it." Then there was the time I accidentally told a teacher I loved him, when I meant to say "I love it [Ireland.]" And the classic French mix-up I'm always stressing not to make: if you directly translate "I'm hot," you're saying "I'm horny." That's assuming I know even a simple phrase in the language of the country I'm visiting . Often I find myself smiling and nodding dumbly, hoping I haven't just agreed to something embarrassing or fatal. That actually serves to summarize my lack of control while travel in general. Smiling, nodding, and counting on the good natures of other people.
In the novel I just finished,
Shantaram (It was fantastic! You should read it!), the narrator constantly talks about "surrendering himself" to India and the people in it. Although I'm not sure I've surrendered myself to France, it's a good way of articulating the loss of control I love (and at moments fear) in traveling. Moments when you are so lost or in need of help that you have to trust a stranger: the freezing cold night I spent in Spain before a hotel clerk let me sleep in his lobby, getting stuck at the bottom of an icy, mountainous road before accepting a ride, letting nudists drag us around for the evening because we'd ended way deeper in the rainforest than we thought we were going to, etc.
But, more importantly, moments when you aren't desperate and you don't
need other people, but you decide to let them take control anyway. In a way, those moments are more nerve-wracking than times of desperation. Rather than putting your fate in someone else's hands when you are already out of control, you willing forsake a control that you hold firmly. It's a greater sacrifice, and one you have to make more consciously. It's a surrender of something we hold dear: our independence. A surrender for the sake of what I'm not exactly sure. What I do know, is that in those moments, of willingly giving up control, I'm consistently rewarded by the goodness of other people. Also, often with hilarious and embarresing stories. (I promise to tell some soon.)
The Reichstag (Wikipedia: Reichstag), or German Parliament building, was the most incredible work of modern architecture I've ever seen. It served as the parliament building before Hitler took control of the German government. During WW2, the Soviets stormed it, destroying everything except the exterior walls. Ten years ago, after the reunification of Germany, it was renovated. Today, the exterior walls still stand. On the inside, they are covered with graffitti from the Russian soldiers who took it. The architect left it as a reminder of what can happen. It's filled with incredible, moving modern art. And that's a real compliment coming from me. I so often find modern art impotent. On top of the building is a giant, glass cupola. You can walk all the way around it, like some of kind of crazy space ship. The architect said that it was so the legislatures only had to look up to remember who they worked for: the people.
