With friction
Notes on approaching travel with humility, a visit to Trieste, and getting to know Ljubljana a little more deeply (Part II)
Read Part I below
Like most people, all of my travels today are mediated by the trillion-dollar industry of tourism that seeks to package experience like a gift basket. The savvy present-day traveler likely browses through countless The Best One-Day Itinerary! articles and videos that essentially promise the most efficient travel plan. It is not unlike the supposed best strategies for all-you-can-eat buffets: Avoid bread and pasta and bottomless fizzy drinks, go for the expensive meats and cheese, take short walking breaks, and always have plenty of dessert — that’s how to make the most out of it! Never mind what you actually want to eat (which, in my case, is always noodles or pasta). The objective is not satiation of hunger but the satisfaction of an abstract sense of value for money.
It is hard not to be driven by this impulse when traveling is an incredibly costly affair. One Saturday, Michael and I took the bus to the coastal town of Trieste, Italy. From Ljubljana, the trip is only an hour and fifteen, though the border inspection delayed us by another 45 minutes. Running through my mind was the thought that, after that day trip, I may never be in this town again. Why wouldn’t I want to see and do everything I possibly can while there? So, we tried: pasta and Italian wine for lunch (a must in Italy, right?), the Miramare Castle by the Adriatic Sea, the Cathedral of San Giusto, the ruins of a Roman theater, the Sant’Antonio Taumaturgo, espresso and a carsolina at Caffè Stella Polare (once frequented by James Joyce, who used to live in Trieste), pasta and Italian wine for dinner (again), sunset at the Piazza dell'Unita d'Italia, and a negroni at the town’s oldest café to end the evening. Still, by the end of it, my feet sore and my heart full, all the sightseeing can still feel inadequate. There is always another monument to visit, a restaurant with an equally interesting menu, a beautiful trail to hike. Was it not miraculous enough that I, born and raised in the Philippines and a resident of a small town in central Texas currently doing a residency in Ljubljana, found myself in a lovely town in the Mediterranean? Every time, this monster of greed must be slain.
There is little mystery left in travel. Thanks to the accessibility of comprehensive travel guides, translation apps, and detailed maps, travel has largely become frictionless — but to what end? We are, as I said, the result of countless collisions, but what happens when the space between each possible moment of fusion or repulsion has virtually disappeared?
In Inclusions: Aesthetics of the Capitalocene, Nicolas Bourriaud writes: “As it happens, contemporary humanity’s shortage of the faraway coincides with an industrialization of travel that has made the exotic commonplace. In fact, we all practice ethnology daily: our contact with the elsewhere occurs through social networks—a far cry from the explorer missioned by an institute and equipped with expertise.” This “shortage of the faraway” in travel blurs the line between the real (the actual lived experience of being in a new place) and the simulation (the realistic multimedia content about the place). That I felt a sense of recognition upon arriving at Prešeren Square for the first time, thanks to all the photos and virtual tours available online, set off some alarm bells.
I do not lament the technological innovations that have allowed travel to be easier and more affordable — I depend on them! — but I genuinely wonder how they refract the lens with which I see a new world. A quick self-inspection: Beneath the desire to meticulously curate a trip lurks the idea of imposing on a place how exactly I want it to be rather than seeing it, and myself, for what it is. There is no pure culture, I say, and yet in planning my travels I am drawn to “hidden gems” and “authentic” experiences peddled like secret treasures. Its exploitative undertone does not go unmissed.
I inherited a love for travel from my parents who, early on, strove to take us to domestic and international trips whenever they could. Hong Kong was my first overseas trip. I will never forget the sheer awe I, as a six-year-old, felt when the plane landed. After an hour of sitting inside a massive machine that made my ears hurt, I am somehow now in a strange, foreign place with people that do not look like me nor speak my language? The feel of colder winds, the unusual smell of the streets, the signs in Cantonese I couldn’t read — everything was uncomfortable; exhilarating.
It is, if anything, that sense of wonder I wish to revive in myself in a world that leaves very little space for mystery. Acknowledging my position as a visitor, an other, how do I visit a new city as though meeting a stranger, rather than as a product to consume? With the inevitable exchange that comes with meeting versus the one-sidedness of consumption, how do I exercise my subjectivity with responsibility? How do I bring myself in this new world?
I have no definite answers, only leads: with eyes open and my feet on the ground. Without fear of friction.
On the walk home one evening, I caught a group of musicians busking at the Cobbler’s Bridge. I stopped and joined the other spectators leaning against the railing opposite the lively quintet. By now, Michael was back in Texas, so I was in a faraway city by myself, surrounded by strangers from all over the world, listening to a jazzy rendition of Stand By Me at twilight as the Ljubljanica flowed its quiet, ancient course beneath me. I thought of the countless fleeting interactions I’ve had since being here, and how I will be forever changed by those handful of minutes: the owner of the quiet restaurant in Trieste who spoke no English but served Michael and I with warmth and one of the most memorable meals of our visit, the German stranger I ended up having lunch with thanks to an order mix-up, the man who stopped by my table to compliment my penmanship, fellow Filipino traveler Valerie who complimented my outfit, the ticket agent at the bus station who gave me a discount on what was an unexpectedly expensive international fare. Standing in the midst of it all, I was moved to tears by sheer disbelief, amazement — yes, right there, in public. I am somehow in a strange, foreign place with people that do not look like me nor speak my language — because of poetry? In his alternative guide to the city, Marko Pogačnik described the Cobbler’s Bridge as a temple. An invisible roof, he sensed, joined the pillars that rose on either sides of the bridge to create a kind of sacred space. At that moment, I knew exactly what he meant.
May we meet each other where we are, Ljubljana.
Beautifully written. Being moved to tears made it even worthwhile — I mean sometimes we travel “too much” we forget that it’s a privilege — and I also find myself smiling how poetry lead you to Slovenia.
Felt like I was right there myself! I now find myself checking flights to Slovenia. I’m amazed you haven’t mentioned how crowded it is, I mean, compared to the big names of Europe. Brilliant writing as always, looking forward to the next one!!