it was the summer of adventures and misadventures, a dreamy, almost childlike movement from one place to another, enjoying the sights and the simplest of pleasures. it had been too long since i had sat and looked up through the bowels of a tree to the dome above and relaxed as the clouds and sky made a mosaic of blue and white between the different shades of green. at once i fully appreciated the comforts of home that i was missing, and yet i thoroughly thrilled in the sudden freedom of life without them -- that bliss of forgetting all the refinements mother taught. it was a summer to sleep at bus stations, to steal naps while seated by the salt-covered railing of a boat with my feet dangling below, and to charge into an overcrowded bus to steal a seat.
in my travels, i was openly bitter about leaving each place, and yet i was uncontrollably excited about arriving at a new one. i felt like the epic voyager, sent by the gods on some adventure, and like any epic figure, my adventure was a microcosm of life. it was then that i recognized the fear that all along i had been living life as a tourist.
the tourist enters a new land, experiences a limited fraction of the life of the residents, and leaves. the tourist never really belongs. there are moments when the tourist's understanding of the local way of life and thinking suddenly becomes deeper thanks to some insightful experience, but true understanding eludes. to know the land and the people, one must be a citizen. citizens leave the land with life-stories; tourists leave with anecdotes and souvenirs. oh yes, the tourist has seen it all, and perhaps will be able to tour and see more places and experience more than a local citizen, but only the citizen has truly lived through the daily grind of that region.
although the tourist was never baptized into the local culture, but upon arrival at another place the tourist feels a tinge of homesickness for the place just left behind. suddenly there is a longing for the beaches, cottages, bars, and people at the last stop. suddenly the tourist no longer knows which place feels like home. suddenly the tourist feels very lost, and upon returning home, finds that home needs a little adjusting to, which is not without irony since most tourists have been vainly trying to replicate the comforts of home while away from it.
life is that movement from moment to moment, and we can choose to be a tourist through it all, or we can choose to live through it all. life must be lived -- "examined," as the philosopher put it. memories must be mined for every bit of gold that is there, and the day must be seized. life is the greatest unexplored territory, and one can choose to leave life as a tourist, bringing to the grave a few trinkets and photographs, or one can be a citizen of it.
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